Night Bleeds
by WitchGirl
Summary: The night, with its slithering tendrils, bleeds darkness into the twilight of every daytime memory one has when one is locked away from the sun too long. Torture was not Greg's favorite pastime. But unfortunately, it was theirs. A dark fic.
1. Part One: Alone In The Dark

**Night Bleeds**

**Summary:** Under harsh and lonely conditions, a darker side of Greg is revealed… An experiment.

**WARNING:** This fic is rated for language and severe violence. If easily fazed or affected by physical torture, then do not complain to me in the reviews, because I warned you. And please don't accuse me of psychosis. I just have a strange fascination with the macabre.

_**Author's Note:**_ (Because what's a WitchGirl fic without one?) Hey... So this is the product of a night when I decided I just didn't want to go to sleep. A discussion with Kegel at 7:00AM after I made pancakes for my roommate reminded me of dark torture methods used against people, particularly in POW camps, like sleep deprivation and, after three Dr. Peppers and 24 hours of wakefullness, I drummed out the first few lines of this. Listen, I scare myself sometimes, so some of this may seem like I am a total sadist, but trust me when I tell you I only torture people on paper. Pain, when it's not actually hurting anyone, is a fascinating subject. You may quote me on that. ;o) Also, I know I'm really mean to Greg. In Nevada Devil, the fic coming after this, he gets a break and I'm meaner to Sara. Anyways, enjoy chapter one of **Night Bleeds**. Oh, by the way, a shoutout to Kegel for beta reading this for me. ;o). You're swell.

* * *

**PART ONE**_  
_

_"If we couldn't laugh, we would all go insane."_**  
****-The immortal genius of Jimmy Buffett **

He stared at the dark concrete ceiling, counting the cracks in it and the dots and the holes and trying to think about the last time he had ever felt this scared. He pulled his knees to his chest and licked his chapped lips, but the actions were futile. He drew little comfort from his own arms around his legs and his mouth was bone dry, so not a drop of moisture soothed his stinging lips. They had begun to crack by now, but that was the least of his worries. 

He tried to think back to the last time they had given him any water. It felt like weeks, but as a scientist he knew that he couldn't last more than a couple days without the life-giving liquid. So he must have gone without seeing them for… two days now? Two days made sense. It was two more than he'd have liked, and one less from him dying of dehydration.

And he hadn't eaten anything in longer than that.

He scratched his nose and leaned his throbbing head back against the wall. Two days. But this migraine had lasted for months. Years. Days. Hours. They were all the same to him now, really. The night bled blackness into even his memories of daylight. Time has no meaning when you're locked in a windowless room, when you haven't seen another living soul for two whole days.

If it had been two _whole_ days.

In truth, there was no way he could ever really be sure how long it had been. It had been a while since they had come. He used to dread their visits, and now he longed for them, for the sight of some other person, human or not, kind or not, it no longer mattered to him. He relished their painful touch when they would grab him by the hair and dunk him head first into the refreshingly cold bucket of water.

Oh what he wouldn't give for a drop of water on his tongue! The heat was getting to him. He knew if he had any moisture left in his shriveled body, he would be drenched in sweat at that moment. But his body couldn't spare him even that. It had to hold onto the small volume of water that it had. At least until they returned, until they held him under again, half drowning, half reviving the half dead shell of a man that used to be Greg Sanders.

It wasn't a game to them, though Greg sometimes saw the spark of something jubilant in their eyes when they were feeling particularly malicious. In a way, he had brought this upon himself. Always going a step too far, always acting a little cockier than he should, always trying to be a fucking hero…

They were a political organization, though admittedly if you asked him to tell you what they were fighting for, he couldn't tell you. All he knew was the body count. Emaciated victims, mostly male, some female, abandoned in the middle of Lake Mead until they were discovered and picked up by the Las Vegas Crime Lab years, sometimes decades after they had been disposed of. He knew the body count… and the evidence. Oh Greg knew the evidence inside and out. He had processed it all personally from the crime scene to the lab. After all, it was generally personal when one of the old corpses is the corpse of your old man.

* * *

_Somewhere between ten years and ten days earlier…_

Greg drove over there rocking out to The Cure blasting out of the stereo. He pulled up the lake to see Grissom's back to him. His supervisor had his arms folded as he stared out at the massive body of water. About a dozen boats were coming to shore, each with flashing blue and red lights that illuminated the velvet night. Greg popped a mint into his mouth before jumping out of the car and walking over to stand next to his supervisor. He looked around.

"So what's this all about anyway?" he asked, his eyes hungry for all the gory details.

Grissom cast him a sidelong glance before his eyes once again rested on the incoming police boats. "Bodies," he said. "One washed up on the shore a ways down a few hours ago." He nodded to his left, where Greg saw along the stretch of beach crime scene tape and Sara processing a distorted corpse. He cringed as a cold wind danced across his neck.

"And the police boats?" he inquired, his focus returning to Grissom.

Grissom took a deep breath. "Earlier today, swing shift had a report of a fisherman hooking a dismembered hand," he explained. "They thought it was just another body dump or something, but when they went out to extract the corpse, they found a tuna fishing net holding twenty-seven bodies."

"A mass grave…" Greg muttered, his brow furrowing.

"Mm," Grissom grunted. "Seems as though it's been there a while, too. Decomp on the body that washed to shore is pretty bad. There's no way we can ID him short of dental records. The prints are way too degraded. He was completely stripped. I doubt he had clothes to begin with, but if he did the water has long since worn them away. All the bodies in the fishing net were naked too. I'm guessing he slipped through a hole or something."

"How long did David guess he'd been down there?" Greg asked.

Grissom shrugged. "I don't know, years for sure. I think the ball park was fifteen to twenty."

Greg let out a low whistle. "Wow, that's a long time."

Grissom gave him a lopsided smile. "Half your lifetime," he said.

Greg squinted down the beach. "He looks like he still has skin of some sort, even a tuft of hair, how's that?"

Grissom shrugged. "Compared to the others who aren't anything more than just skeletons, he's the most well-preserved of the bunch," he replied. "Maybe he had special treatment or something…" He nodded at Sara. "Go help her out, she's been waiting for you. And maybe she can answer your questions better than I can."

Greg nodded and took a deep breath before springing into action. He would never forget the slow realization that dawned on him step by step as he approached the body. He remembered that he somehow couldn't shake that grave sense of foreboding that seemed to creep up on him the closer he got to the blue tinted carcass. His eyes focused on Sara, who was crouching near the man's head, looking down at what was left of his rubbery skin that stretched across his skull.

"Hey there," he said, and she looked up, favoring him with a soft smile as she rose to her feet.

"So we think this is a body dump," she said. "Like the others. Maybe a mob job, or something else, we're not really sure." She held up the camera. "I snapped all the shots and processed the surrounding area. Nick and Catherine are on the boats pulling in the other bodies and Warrick's out with Brass on the perimeter. All that's left to do here is process the body itself."

Greg's eyes returned to the skeletal corpse with just enough skin to reveal that it once had flesh. "Why does he look so good?"

Sara chewed her lip momentarily. "Found white fibers basically glued to his arm," she replied. "He could have been wrapped…"

"Like a mummy?" Greg cocked an eyebrow, but she shook her head.

"I don't know, Greg…" She looked over her shoulder and pointed a few yards away. "I had some fancy looking driftwood up and down this beach too. Could have been a shattered casket. He might not even be related to our friends in the fishing net." She nodded at his hands and handed him a pair of tweezers and an evidence bag. "There are some more fibers stuck in the joints between his fingers, if you'd care to do the honors."

He nodded slowly and took the tools from her as he knelt down next to the dead man with great care and reverence. He took the man's left hand and began plucking the white fibers from his joints when he stopped suddenly.

His breathing became ragged, but he controlled it as his heart fluttered angrily in his chest. All the blood was rushing to his feet as he stared at the tarnished gold band the man wore on his ring finger. "Hey, uh, Sara?" he said, trying to sound casual.

"Hm?" she replied, putting away a few things in her kit.

"When you were taking pictures of this guy, did he have any, you know, unusual markings, maybe a, uh, birthmark or a tattoo…?"

She looked over at him and frowned before nodding. "Uh, yeah. You're lucky he still has enough skin left to tell us that. He seems to have a sort of Celtic Cross on the back of his right shoulder blade. I don't know if it's a tattoo or a bruise or what because it's faded and with a body this bad it's hard to say, but it's there. Why do you ask?"

Greg hesitated as he stared at the man's right shoulder, wondering if he dared turn him around to see. He dropped his hand immediately. "Uh… No reason. I figured if he had something like that then maybe we could identify him better… or… something."

Her brow furrowed as she scrutinized him pensively. "Are you OK, Greg? You seem a little jittery."

He made a face and waved at the air under his nose, then laughed lightly. "Uh, yeah, I'm cool. It's just the smell of this dude is getting to me, you know?

She chuckled and nodded in understanding. "I hear ya," she said. "Listen, I'm gonna take this back to the truck, let me know when you're done here so we can start heading back."

"Right…" Greg muttered absently. He was looking at the corpse's face, searchingly. His eyes had long since disappeared, possibly scavenged or maybe decomposed in the ten odd years he'd been in the water, but that ring was unmistakable. Greg's mother had one exactly like it.

His eyes didn't even leave the dead man's face until he felt warm fingers squeezing his shoulder and he looked up to see Sara looking down at him, curious concern etched in her dark brown eyes. "It's just the smell, right?" she asked, as though wanting reassurance that her duties as a friend would end there. Greg knew that they both understood it was something far deeper than that, but neither wanted to address it at that moment and he flashed her one of his trademark grins before rolling his eyes.

"Yeah, he's just… you know, old corpsie lounging about, having people pull him around everywhere, not a care in the world… Living the good life, or… well, so to speak."

Sara's lips twitched and she squeezed his shoulder one more time for good measure, letting him know that when the time was right, she would ask again, but for now she was appeased. "Wish you were dead so you'd have an excuse for us to haul _your_ lazy ass everywhere?"

He smirked. "Only if you're the one doing the hauling, beautiful."

She rolled her eyes and let go of his shoulder before turning back in the direction of the car. "Don't take too long," she called over her shoulder.

Greg didn't reply. In a way, he was glad for this moment alone, for this eerie reunion. He sighed as he brushed seaweed off the carcass's chest. "Hello, Dad," he whispered. "So this is where you've been these past seventeen years."

* * *

_The Present._

Greg thought about Sara's words and wondered at the truth they held. At the time, they had been uttered as a sort of morbid joke to lighten the very dark mood that had settled over the two of them. But now, he seriously considered it. Did he believe that he was better off dead, at this point in time? Did he think he was the same person that he had been, before he had arrived at that fateful crime scene that bleak October evening?

No. No matter what happened to him, he would always choose life. He was addicted to the drug and wasn't ready to quit cold turkey, despite the hell it put him through. Life was _always_ better than the alternative. And so long as he still had his sanity, he still had something to hold onto. If he could hold onto one shred of the mind that was slowly oozing out of his ears and down the drain, just a little piece of it, then that was all he needed.

The main question wasn't what he needed to do but how. He tried to think of the one thing in his life that despite everything that he had ever been through had always been constant. His family was out of the picture. His mother had fallen to pieces the second she heard that her husband had disappeared. There was no place he really considered to be home for him. Not in San Gabriel, or San Jose, or New York, not even Las Vegas. He had always been a rolling stone. He supposed that this was just where he had landed. This perpetual night was his home now, and he sought solace in its black folds and found little there but fear and madness. He had to stay as far away from the madness as possible. It was a plague that threatened to consume him daily and he had to fight it off, at least until something changed at least until the hours stopped bleeding into years and time had meaning again. At least until they killed him.

He shuddered at this unwelcome thought, but once conceived he was infected and the terror spread through him like a poison. He didn't want to die, though he was beginning to accept it as an inevitability. With no concept of time, he had no idea how long he had been gone, or what clues they had left behind for his friends to find him. After all, his father had been through this same ordeal, and look what happened to him.

But he couldn't think of that now. Thoughts of death and the torture to come would only further his decent into madness, and that was the one demon he refused to let get the best of him. He had to find that thing to hold onto. His friends… Their faces… That was something. But eventually, he knew, they would make him forget them too. They would try to break his spirit until it shattered like a crystal ball tossed against the floor.

Crystal ball… his grandmother. Spirituality, moreover, religion. But Greg had never been a devout anything all his life. The only religion he believed in was narcissism.

He chuckled at the thought, and was surprised at the movement of his bruised ribcage up and down that he stopped immediately. His hands flew to his emaciated chest, his calloused fingers running gently over the peaks and valleys his ribs left in his skin like an old umbrella. He hadn't laughed like that in weeks, or maybe months. The feeling was alien to him, but beautifully divine. It was as though that, after finding himself stranded in a foreign land, he had found some strangely flavored spiced tea that somehow reminded him of home.

And it was in that moment that he knew there was one thing that had always been constant in his life and that was his wacky and often inappropriate sense of humor. He smiled fondly as he thought of all the jokes he'd made in the past and all the confused, amused, and often unenthused looks his friends would repay him with. And he bet he was a sight to see! What would they say, if they saw him like that? He raised a weak hand to his head and mussed his oily hair, imagining what he would see if he looked in the mirror. But a mirror would require light, which he had been denied. He imagined he looked like an anorexic Kate Moss, but then reasoned that his hair wasn't nearly long enough, or blonde enough.

The image of himself dressed in drag managed to bring another smile to his lips and he turned to the side and took a deep, rattling breath. He had found a sliver of light after years of darkness. The sun may rise after all.

His proverbial light turned literal as the door to his humid cell opened on the far side of the room and Greg held his hand in front of his rapidly shrinking pupils to shield his eyes. But his sun was quickly eclipsed by the silhouette of his transgressor. He had a narrow build and pointed features. Greg called him the Rat for these very reasons.

He walked into Greg's cell with his hands clasped behind his back. Greg squinted at him and noted that he was wearing a pinstriped suit. He had grown some stubble since Greg had last seen him. He didn't say a word, but simply motioned to the door where two of his minions entered carrying a water basin between them. Greg almost smiled. They dropped the basin in front of him and he almost wanted to dive in there face first himself.

"Drink," the Rat ordered simply. Greg looked at him, not sure he heard him correctly. Dink? Think? What had he said? Greg wondered if his brain understood English anymore. It had been so long since he'd had to use the language… But the Rat never asked twice. The next thing he knew, one of his thugs had grabbed him by the back of his head, twisting Greg's hair around his fingers as he forced Greg's face into the lukewarm liquid. Even as he sputtered for air, he gulped down as much as he could, never knowing when he would get the chance to do so again.

Eventually they pulled him out again and he blinked to clear his vision as the water trickled down his face. His lungs ached, but his parched throat finally had some sort of relief. He looked up at his captor questioningly, but didn't know the words to ask his most burning questions. How long had it been since he'd seen daylight? What did they want from him? When would they give up and kill him?

The Rat crouched down on the opposite side of the basin so he was eyelevel with Greg and gave him a pointed stare with his beady eyes. Greg had forgotten how to speak, but even if he'd remembered he wouldn't have said a word. For the longest time they sat there, staring at each other, but time had no meaning to Greg. When hours turned to minutes and seconds to days, he found that he could stay in the same position indefinitely, sometimes without blinking. He had found the secret to immortality, and it was a living hell.

"What is your name?" the Rat asked.

That was a stupid question. Greg tried to move his lips to find the letters to make the words. His mouth took on plenty of forms before he dared tried to use his voice, and when he finally did he was surprised at the sound of it. After years of disuse, it had mutated inside of him and became the sound of his suffering, contorted and twisted into a sickly green thing covered in cobwebs and dripping in bile. It was sick, and he had let it die. "Gr… Gre… Greg Sa… Sa…" How does one make that _N_ sound? For Christ's sake, how did he use to _do_ it? "Greg Sa… Sa…"

The Rat mocked him. "Sa… Sa… Spit it out, boy, we don't have all day."

Greg closed his eyes tight and swallowed painfully. He felt the tears sting the back of his eyes but he refused to shed them. Not because it would show defeat, no, Greg had long since been defeated. He didn't want to cry for the sheer reason of survival. He couldn't spare a drop of water because he didn't know when he would get that drop back. He coughed, dusting some of the cobwebs off of his voice. "Sa… San…" There it was, that _N_ sound. "Sanders."

The Rat's lips twitched. "What was your name again?"

Greg licked his lips and took a deep breath, then regretted it instantly as his abused lungs coughed it right back out again. They could no longer handle that much air at a time. He imagined someone had poked holes in them, like a balloon, and the air escaped into his body somewhere. He doubled over with coughs and felt something sharp strike him across his bare back. He winced, but as if they knew they were causing him trouble, his lungs stopped seizing and he recovered, the rapidly developing welts on his back stinging wildly. He straightened up to see one of the thugs holding a leather belt with a large brass buckle. He looked back at the Rat. "Greg Sanders."

The Rat's smile broadened as he rose to his feet. "So," he said. "You still know your name, do you?"

Greg was suddenly frightened. Had he done something wrong? Maybe he shouldn't have answered at all.

The Rat looked at his two thugs. "Prepare the mirrors," he said. "I think it's about time this boy saw daylight again." And with that, he turned on his heal and walked to the door.

"Wait!" Greg rasped, and his captor dutifully hesitated in the doorway. After breathing heavily for a few more moments, Greg dug up the courage to ask. "Wha… Why don't… When are you going to… to kill me?"

Greg couldn't see his face, but he knew the man was smiling. He could detect the wickedness in his voice as he replied. "When you can no longer remember your own name," he replied simply, and then quickly shut the door, leaving Greg in the dark again, and very much alone.


	2. Scorcher

_**Author's Note:**_ Kegel and I are in agreement. I'm way too evil. But I promise there will be less unpleasantness later. Once again, a huge thank you to Kegel for the beta, you're so kickass.

* * *

_Earlier…_

"… no way to determine actual COD with any of them really. But on this one, as he's the most intact, you can see that his ribs had been fractured and healed and fractured again on multiple occasions. He had a sprained ankle and broken pelvic bone. He has no organs left, it's all just mud inside this skin sack, but judging by the spotted discoloration, my guess is he had some external injuries as well, though the only real discernable mark is the one on his upper shoulder, which seems to be—"

"A burn."

Grissom and Dr. Robbins looked at Greg who was staring pensively at the John Doe corpse laid out on the autopsy table. It was the first time Greg had said anything since arriving back at the lab, and the first time he had ever interrupted Dr. Robbins mid-report in his entire career. So both Grissom and the doctor were curious, and waited for Greg to elaborate, but he didn't even look up at them. It seemed he hadn't even been aware that he'd said anything at all.

So Dr. Robbins continued, slowly at first, waiting for Greg to stop him again, but returned to normal speed when Greg remained silent. "Yes… a burn. It seems to be a brand of some sort, an equal sided cross in a circle." Dr. Robbins turned the body over so the two CSIs could get a better look.

"Sara described it as Celtic in her notes," Grissom noted as he looked at the burn.

Dr. Robbins nodded. "You might want to check up on that, maybe you could—"

"It's a mark that was used by an old Irish rebel group in the 1800s…" Greg muttered, catching the attention of his coworkers again. "They would torture English spies beyond recognition and then brand this mark on their shoulders so the English would know who had done the work."

There was an uneasy quiet that settled over them that lasted so long, Grissom was sure that the dead man would speak before Greg ever did again. So he broke the silence. "How did you know that, Greg?"

Greg blinked and looked up at his supervisor. A smile tugged at his lips. "My dad was a European history professor at UC Berkley for a while," he replied. "Historical facts were my bedtime stories."

Grissom looked at Dr. Robbins, then to the young CSI pensively. "Greg, could I talk to you outside for a moment?"

Greg nodded and followed the older man out of the room. Grissom closed the door behind him and eyed Greg warily. "Are you going to be OK working on this case?"  
Greg cocked an eyebrow. "What do you mean, Grissom? I'm fine."

"Well you don't seem fine," Grissom said. "Sara told me you were shaking at the crime scene."

"It was cold," Greg snapped, a little too defensively. He took a deep breath and revised his tone. "I mean, I had left my jacket in the car, and it was kind of chilly out there, you know? Plus, the stench of it, made me a little queasy, that's all."

Grissom nodded slowly, but it was obvious he wasn't buying it. "She also said you were unusually withdrawn. Like your mind was somewhere else. She said you kept staring at the body like you expected it to come back to life."

"Well that's what we're supposed to do, isn't it? Look at the body? Look for evidence?" Greg replied. "That's all I was doing. If it seemed like I was quiet, it was because I was focusing on the body to see if maybe Sara had missed something initially, that's all. Like the ring on his left hand?"

"You knew about the Celtic Cross on his shoulder," Grissom said.

Greg laughed. "I _asked_ if he had any distinct markings. Birthmark, tattoo, an interesting freckle combination, maybe a liver spot that looked like the silhouette of Alfred Hitchcock. I didn't know he had a brand on his shoulder, I was just trying to see if maybe we could get something to help identify him. I mean, somebody lost this guy seventeen years ago, they might want to know what happened to him."

Grissom's brow furrowed in thought. "Seventeen years ago?"

Internally, Greg cursed himself for letting that slip. "You know, it's somewhere between fifteen and twenty. Like David guessed."

Grissom was displeased as he folded his arms. "Greg, if there's something you're not telling me here, and I find out about it later—"

"You won't," Greg cut him off quickly. "I mean, you won't find out about it because there's nothing I'm not telling you."

Grissom bit his lip, but nodded. "OK," he said. He turned back to the door to go back inside. "Greg?"

"Hm?" the young CSI responded.

Grissom looked at him over his shoulder. "You're Norwegian on your mother's side, but Sanders is an English surname."

Greg nodded. "What's your point?"

Grissom hesitated before shaking his head. "I don't have one," he replied, and then reentered the autopsy room, followed by Greg.

* * *

_The Present. _

He was hungry. No, hungry was an understatement. He was literally starving. He could feel his body begin to turn on itself as his muscles dissolved. He wasn't even dead yet, and his body was already beginning to decompose. He wondered vaguely if this is what his father went through. He hadn't seen the Rat in a long time, or so he could only guess. He had been left alone in the dark indefinitely, with nothing but the ominous word of "mirrors" hanging in his mind. What in the world could they possibly do to torture him with mirrors?

In his restless sleep, when sleep would come, he dreamed of a time before this one, when he knew sunlight, when he knew the voices of friends and family who had loved him. It was getting harder and harder to remember their faces. He had already forgotten what they sounded like. All he had were names and hazy memories. When he remembered what it was like to step out into the daylight, it was a memory of overcast skies and crime scenes. When he remembered what it was like to laugh with his friends, it was a memory of sterile labs and Blue Hawaiian coffee in the break room. He wanted to remember the sun. He wanted to remember what it felt like, to have that warmth against his skin. In his mind, he pictured heaven as a garden he could sunbathe in all day long.

Little did he know, he'd have his wish soon enough.

The door to his cell was once again opened, spilling white light into his night. The Rat stood there for a moment before stepping aside and allowing his two goons to enter. Each of them took one of Greg's arms and forced him to his feet, pushing him towards the door. Greg wasn't sure where they were taking him, but he knew that he needed to find something to laugh about otherwise the fear would drive him out of his mind. What had the Rat said earlier? Mirrors… What were they going to do, make him faint in horror at the sight of his own reflection?

They pushed him down the hall and he stumbled over his feet, which he wasn't used to using anymore. They laughed at him when he fell down and kicked him to make him get up again. Finally, they took him to a circular room with a faceted glass dome, and Greg stopped in his tracks when he saw the sun, magnified behind the glass. It was so beautiful… and so bright.

It was then that he noticed the mirrors that lined the room. All of them were focused on the center of the room, at which a wrought iron chair was situated. It looked uncomfortable, but something told Greg that was the last thing he needed to worry about.

The Rat and his cronies forced Greg down into the chair, pulling his arms back behind him and tying them to the back of the chair. And so he sat there, rather uncomfortably, in this wrought iron chair, battered and naked, his bruises visible for the world to see. In the beginning, he used to be humiliated by this, but by now he felt like an animal. Clothes were alien to him and without them he was free to indulge his more primal instincts of survival.

It had been only a moment, and yet already Greg could feel the heat of the sun and ten dozen mirrors focusing all the light on him. So this was what the Rat had meant. What an elaborate way to cause someone pain. They must really put a lot of thought into their torture methods. He wondered if they had a committee that sat down and brainstormed these ideas. The image of the Rat sitting down at a table filled with suit-and-tie creative directors brought a smile to his lips.

He immediately regretted this as something sharp struck him across the face and he tasted that now familiar and putrid metallic tang that meant he was bleeding again. He spat out the blood onto the floor and snapped his eyes tightly shut, trying to will the pain away in his stinging cheek with his thoughts. He took a deep breath and accidentally inhaled some of the blood in his mouth. He began to splutter and choke, which only reminded him of drowning in the water basin and it sent chills down his spine.

Someone hit him harshly on the back. "And what the hell were you smiling about then?" the Rat demanded.

Greg coughed a few more times, but he refused to open his eyes. _Damn_ it was getting hot in there. He felt the beads of sweat form at the roots of his hair and slowly trickle down his temples and the back of his neck. "Just… wondering how much thought you guys…" He coughed again and swallowed, wetting his throat so he could speak a little more clearly. "How much thought you put into your torture methods, that's all. I thought, maybe you had a creative team."

The Rat walked around the chair and looked down on Greg. In the bright light of the room, Greg could clearly see that he had shaven since they had last met, but his eyes were as small and beady as ever as he looked down his pointed nose at him. He wore pinstriped pants and a black shirt, and almost reminded Greg of a Mafia man, although Greg knew better. This was something much darker than the Mafia. If Greg had the courage, he might have spit on the man's shiny black cap-toe shoes.

"You thought that was funny, did you?" the Rat asked quietly.

Greg blinked, then finally his eyes rolled up to look at the Rat. He was breathing heavily. The heat was really getting to him. "Yeah," he said. "Actually, I did."

The Rat struck him again, this time on his other cheek forcing his head to the right. Greg opened his jaw and stretched it out, emitting a quiet obscenity at the fresh wave of pain. A bead of sweat rolled into the corner of his mouth. He licked it up with his tongue. He had to preserve water at all costs.

"Did you find that funny?" The Rat asked casually.

Greg chuckled lightly. It sounded like rattling bones. This man, with his wannabe mob outfit and his greasy hair, was almost amusing in himself. He reminded Greg of a bad game show host, or even some slimy car salesman. "When you look for it in the right places," Greg replied, "you can find all sorts of things funny."

The Rat nodded at his cronies and they reacted instantly, pushing Greg's shoulders away from the back of his uncomfortable, and now burning hot metal chair. It pulled at his arms, but Greg simply gritted his teeth, preparing for a worse pain to come. Instinctively, he tried to sit back against the chair, knowing that whatever they had in mind wouldn't be pleasant and he intended on putting it off for as long as possible, although he knew that it was inevitable. They only pushed him forward again, and Greg was far too weak to try any harder to resist. The Rat walked behind him and Greg followed him as far as he could with his eyes and then turned his head when his eyes went no further. He couldn't see behind him, but he did hear the clang of metal on metal. The heat was broaching unbearable, but he was unaware that it would soon become scorching.

"What is your name?" The Rat asked, his voice oozing with oily sadistic malice.

Greg took a deep breath and sighed before closing his eyes. He couldn't lie. It would lead to his death. And at this point, he was still convinced that living was the better alternative. And so, he told the truth, which he knew would only lead to more of this living hell.

"Greg fucking Sanders you tree-humping shit," he said with rattling breath.

He heard the petrifying hiss and smelt the repugnant stench of burning flesh before his mind would even let him consider the agonizing daggers of his sizzling shoulder. He let out a roar as if he'd never screamed before in his life. Colors, faces, images flashed before his vision like a movie placed on fast-forward. His throbbing migraine was relentless as his own screams shattered his ear drums. He was still screaming when he finally opened his eyes and saw the Rat standing in front of him holding a hot branding iron with the wickedest smirk Greg had ever seen. There was an equal sided cross at the end of it, surrounded by a circle and Greg knew exactly what had just happened.

His breathing came in bursts for a while, his shoulder violently protesting as the skin blistered and cooled and he gritted his teeth to try and control his pain. He hadn't even noticed, but tears had escaped his eyes and were blazing ice trails down his burning red cheeks. He welcomed the cool they brought, but also knew it was drops of water he didn't have now.

"What is your name?" the Rat repeated.

Greg wanted to speak. But the words caught in his throat. _Don't say it_, a voice in his head told him. _Don't say it or they'll hurt you again._

He swallowed the words, and then summoned them again, trying to find the oxygen to utter them with. "Gr-Greg… S-S-Sand… Sanders," he stuttered. It wasn't much, but it was still too much for the Rat apparently.

"Leave him here a while," he said to his thugs. "We'll see if maybe in a few hours, he has forgotten his name."

The Rat spun around and marched out the door, followed by his minions, and Greg was alone again. The only difference this time was now he was alone in the light, which, he realized, was far worse than being alone in the dark. 


	3. Fire and Ice

_**Author's Note:**_ I thought of the best ending to this yesterday. In case you haven't figured it about by now, this is a story of endurance. It may get a little philosophical, but I promise to keep it light (in the philosophical sense, not in the dark torture sense, you were warned of that already). In the meantime, enjoy this flashback and a little more Greg angst. And to PisceanPal23 and anyone else thinking along those lines-- I think Greg gets the worst of it in all these stories because he's the most optimistic (in a sense...) and it's just interesting to put him (as opposed to the other characters) in such outrageous situations. One of the reasons I chose him to focus on for this (believe it or not, I thought about doing it with Nick at first) was because I figured he would be the one to hold onto his humor the longest and, as my good old pal Jimmy Buffett says (quoted in chapter one and interpreted here), if you lose your sense of humor, you lose your reason to live in the first place.

* * *

_Earlier…_

He stared at his father's remains for a long time after Dr. Robbins had finished with him. He didn't know what he thought he would get out of it, but maybe he could figure out something to help his old man. How had he ended up in a coffin in Lake Mead that had been sealed well enough to preserve him as though he'd been in the ground? Why had the other twenty-seven corpses been tossed together in a net? Why had his father _mattered_ enough that they felt he deserved a… a…

No. It wasn't a _proper_ burial at all, but the fibers he and Sara had collected had indeed turned out to be silk, and the worn wood he had washed up with had, once upon a time, been fine polished ebony. So he had been in a casket of some sort. Sara and Grissom both agreed that this meant he had nothing to do with the mass grave in the middle of Lake Mead. But intuition and his father's words had taught Greg better. It was no coincidence that his father's corpse just happened to wash up when the other bodies were found. He had been down there with them, until something had knocked his casket free, probably shattering it, and ripping a hole in the fishing net that contained the other bodies. It could have been anything, a large boat, a heavy anchor dragging across the bottom even.

Greg's memories of his father were few and far between. He had disappeared when Greg was only fourteen, and before that he had never been around much. He would always hear his parents arguing. She would be upset, because he was constantly lying to her. He was never around. She thought he was having an affair. But it wasn't another woman that had been keeping his father constantly away from home, always gone on business, always sending them elaborate gifts that, as Greg's mother always said, were out of their price range.

He recalled the very last time he had seen his father. It was two weeks from his fifteenth birthday…

* * *

_Yesterday… Give or take seventeen years… _

He just missed a basket in the driveway when he heard the front door slam. The basketball bounced against the garage door before rolling back to him down the driveway, but Greg paid no attention to it as it stopped against his feet. His eyes were on his father, dressed in a black suit and fixing his tie as he carried a briefcase and walked swiftly to their old car.

"Dad?"

His father paused and looked at him with eyes hidden behind his expensive sunglasses. His lips were straight, and for a moment Greg wondered if it was his father at all or some strange clone someone had replaced him with. "What is it, Greggo?"

Greg smiled at the nickname, the familiarity of it reassuring him that it was indeed his father beyond his vacant mask. "I know you're leaving tonight, but I was just wondering if you'd be back for my birthday. Mom said maybe you could take me to the Pearl Jam concert."

"Pearl Jam? What's that, some sort of foot cream?"

Greg laughed. "No, Dad, it's this fly new band… Please?"

His father frowned. "I thought you were into the Cure or the Medicine or whatever the hell they're calling themselves…"

"Dad, the Cure is so _eighties_, get with the nineties, it's all about Pearl Jam," Greg replied. "Besides, the Cure will never last 'til the new millennium. So? You gonna take me?"

His father smiled sadly and sighed. He took off his glasses and shook his head. "I'm sorry, kiddo, I just don't want to make any promises I can't keep."

Greg's shoulders slumped, dejectedly. "But Mom said she'd only let me go if you take me."

"Look," his dad said with a shrug. "I'll try my best, OK, but I've made enough broken promises in my lifetime, and most of them to your mother. This is a big deal for my company, Greg, I could get a big promotion. I have no idea how long it might last and I—"

Greg frowned at him angrily before he lifted the basketball and threw it as hard as he could at his father, who was caught by surprise and lifted his briefcase to block the attack. The ball hit it hard and bounced off, but not before the lock busted and papers flew everywhere.

"God _dammit_, Greg!" his father yelled, frantically trying to gather up the papers.

Greg was immediately embarrassed and he ran over to his father and helped him collect his papers. "Sorry…" he mumbled.

"Jesus _Christ_, I don't need this right now, Greg, I mean, this is why your mother doesn't want you doing sports, because shit like this happens! Fuck, Greg— no! No, don't you fucking touch those!" He ripped some papers out of his son's hands furiously, and Greg looked up at him with frightened eyes. He had heard his dad swear before, but never so much at a time. At the look on his son's face, Mr. Sanders sighed. "Hey…" But Greg was looking elsewhere. He knelt to pick up another paper and looked at it a moment. "Hey!" his Dad said more sharply, catching Greg's attention. "Listen, kiddo, I know you're just trying to help. But these papers… You shouldn't…"

But he already had. Greg was holding out the paper to his father that he had just picked up. It was a scan of a symbol from an old book and paper-clipped to the top was a photograph of a body with the same symbol branded into a man's shoulder. Stamped across the top of the document was CLASSIFIED: US GOVERNMENT.

"You don't work for any sort of company, do you Dad?" Greg asked, looking his father in the eye.

It was the first time that Greg had ever seen his dad look like a human being as he smiled miserably, the bags under his eyes all of a sudden as visible as his prematurely graying hair. "When they ask," he said, taking the paper from Greg. "You tell them I'm a history professor."

"When who asks, Dad?"

He laughed quietly to himself and mussed Greg's hair. "You don't need to worry about anything like that, Greggo."

"Dad?" Greg said as his father packed away his papers in his suitcase again. "I, uh… I know I shouldn't be asking, but—"

"If you know you shouldn't ask, then don't," his father said sharply.

But the scanned image on the paper had been burned into the back of his mind. It felt bad somehow. "What's with the cross and circle?"

His father fastened the briefcase and looked up at him, and for a moment Greg thought he was going to yell at him again, but he didn't. "It's a brand," he said, "used by the Irish to mark out traitors in their ranks. It was used mostly on English spies after they tortured them so when the English found their corpses, they would know who had done it."

Slowly, Greg nodded. "And… what's it doing on that guy?"

His father straightened up and gave him a stern look. "What guy?"

Greg opened his mouth to clarify, but the intimidating gaze of his father made him close his mouth again. "Oh."

A grin infected his father's face. "You're a good kid, Greg," he said. "Stay that way."

Greg beamed at him. "I love you, Dad." For some reason, he needed to remind his father of that. He felt as if he hadn't said it in years.

His father laughed, but there was the twinge of regret in it as he squeezed his son's shoulders. "Love you too, Greggo. And tell you what. I'll make a few calls, we'll see if we can't get backstage passes for that Toe Jam show—"

"_Pearl_ Jam!" Greg laughed, but he knew his father was just messing with him.

"Right, right, _Pearl_ Jam," his dad said. "I'll see what I can do." He turned away and started heading for his car again and climbed inside.

"Does that mean you'll be back in two weeks?" Greg called after him.

His father gave one last look out of the window at his son as he backed out of the driveway. "Wouldn't miss it for the world, Greggo," he called.

But two weeks came and went, and Greg blew out fifteen candles on the cake. He never went to the concert. His mother wouldn't go, and he didn't have any real friends who he could go with, or who his mother would _let_ him go with. So instead he rented Edward Scissorhands and the Godfather Part III. His mom had thought they were both terribly gruesome movies, but the disappointed Greg drew comfort from their peculiarity and violence.

He had spent the rest of the night messing around with his ill-supplied chemistry set trying to come up with a way to chemically manufacture tetrodotoxin in a lab so they wouldn't have to milk it from animals. In his mind, he imagined he would slip it in his father's food when he finally did come back, and his father would swell up like a puffer fish before his lungs failed and his heart stopped.

But Greg never had the chance to poison his father, even if he had really wanted to. Because his father never did return.

* * *

_The Present. _

It was hot. Hotter than hot. His skin was boiling. What Greg had once imagined to be heaven had suddenly been mutated into the lowest level of hell. A small drop of sweat rolled down the bridge of his nose and clung to the end of it, threatening to drop. Greg held out his tongue and readied himself to catch it like he was catching rain. He had made a game of it, something to keep his mind busy so it didn't wander into the depths of insanity. But the sweat drop just hung there, not ready to fall, and he sat there with his tongue out looking like a real fool for what felt like hours until finally the thing fell, and missed his tongue by a quarter of an inch.

Greg sighed.

He wanted to lean back in his chair, but knew from experience that if he did, the wrought iron would sear his flesh like fire. What he was sitting on was painful enough. He felt as though he would never be cool again.

Still, through it all, he tried his hardest to find something, _anything_ to laugh about. He thought hard. He needed his faithful humor, but he couldn't think in all that heat. Monkeys. Monkeys were always funny. Monkeys and… the sun. Oh God, the sun. Why had he missed it? He wanted to go back to his dank, dark cell. It had been humid in there, and warm, but by comparison it was much cooler. This room was harsh and bright and scalding and he just wanted to go back to his quiet, dark cell, where he could at least fall asleep.

His head felt like it would explode with his perpetual migraine. He knew he was becoming dehydrated again. He had to save as much water as possible. But it was hard when he was sweating through his fingernails.

Never before in his life did he wish he had superpowers more than at that moment so he could break free of his binds and fly up and out of the glass ceiling above. When he was six, he jumped off the roof because he thought maybe if he wanted it badly enough, he would fly. His mother never let him read Superman comics again after he shattered his tibia. He never really did run right after that.

The door was the only part of the room that wasn't covered in mirrors, and it opened after an eternity of suffering under perpetual noon. Greg raised his head enough to look up at the Rat. He felt like his skin was melting off of his bones. He gasped for air. "You're back," he noted simply.

The Rat smirked. "What, no clever quip for me?" he said in mock disappointment. "Come on, joker, say something amusing."

Greg rolled his eyes and looked away. He wanted to scoff, but it required too much energy. The Rat's footsteps echoed as he approached Greg in his metal chair and waited for an answer. He dropped a metal bucket down on the floor. The sound made Greg jump, but he didn't look up.

"When I ask you a question, you _answer_," the Rat hissed.

Greg closed his eyes and swallowed. His lips moved a few times before he said anything at all. "I… I can't think of anything."

The Rat looked up at the blue sky above them both then back at Greg. "It sure is hot in here. What about a joke about how the sunlight burns your skin? Are you warm enough, or should we turn up the thermostat a little bit?"

"Please, just stop…" Greg whimpered.

The Rat chuckled lightly, obviously entertained by Greg's pain. "No? Then what about a remark on how all the hours you've lost here have seemed like a party? Or how you couldn't have a better time at a thousand dollar resort in the Caribbean?"

Greg blinked and his brow furrowed in confusion. "Is it… I mean… How long?"

The Rat leaned back on his heals and folded his arms. "Need you really bother yourself with such useless information?"

"It feels like I've been in this sun for…" Greg couldn't even find the unit to describe how long it felt. Hours and days and years all seemed the same length to him now.

The Rat ignored him and pushed the pail he had brought over next to Greg's feet and kneeled down by him. Greg made a half-hearted attempt to look inside the pail. He cocked an eyebrow at his captor. "I have a feeling this won't exactly be a bucket of sunshine."

The Rat looked up at him, mildly impressed. "Ah, your humor has returned, good. It means there's still life I have yet to beat out of you." He hesitated a moment, looking at Greg with glee-filled eyes before grabbing his bare feet and forcing them into the bucket and leaning on his knees.

Greg wasn't exactly sure what had happened at first. He felt his feet hit water, and for one beautiful moment, it was the most exquisite thing he could have ever hoped for. And then, the tingling began. It was small at first, almost bearable but then the stinging grew in magnitude and began to overwhelm him. He frowned and tried to move his legs as he felt like sharp shards of ice were shooting their way up inside his ankles and his shins. But the Rat was stronger than he looked and Greg was far too weak to be any real challenge. Greg tried to knock it over, but the Rat's knees were firmly around the pail keeping it in place as Greg sloshed water and pieces of ice out and onto the floor. He struggled longer and scrunched his face up tightly, trying to tolerate the alternating currents of raw frozen agony that was shooting up his legs and into his brain. The ice cold respite he had been praying for was now burning him worse than the sun. Irony is a fickle friend. One minute it might make you laugh, the next it would make you cry. When Greg could take it no more, he opened his jaw and let out a heart-wrenching scream while the Rat simply laughed.

He struggled there for an eternity, trying to somehow release his feet from their frozen hell while the rest of his body burned. It was a strange and conflicting sensory experience that Greg wished he had never had to endure in the first place.

Finally, the Rat stood up abruptly, releasing Greg's knees and he succeeded in knocking over the bucket, spilling white ice, slush and water all over the floor. His feet were raw and red. He couldn't move his toes. He couldn't help it any longer. He started to sob as the tears leaked out of his eyes.

The Rat was breathing deeply as he watched him with his tiny black eyes. "What is your name?"

Though he cried in a last ditch effort to alleviate some of his pain, he still refused to give up. "Greg…" he sobbed. "Sanders but…" He threw his head back on his shoulders and let out another scream for good measure. He opened his eyes and shook his head, shivering from head to toe. His breath quivered when he spoke. "Why?" he rasped. "Why the fuck do you want to do this to me?"

"Curiosity," the Rat replied. "Why do you refuse to surrender? I told you that if you forget your name, then you will die, and painlessly too. Lethal injection, the most humane way our legal systems have come up with for killing someone. So why, Greg Sanders, do you constantly insist on denying your body the only reprieve it demands of you?"

Chills ran up and down Greg's spine. His body no longer knew if it was too hot or too cold. Yet through it all, he persisted. And in all honesty, he didn't even know why. He didn't answer the Rat for a long time.

"Let me go," he said, his coarse voice barely more than a whisper. "Let me out of this burning hell and I'll tell you why…"

It seemed to the Rat to be a reasonable enough request. He snapped his fingers and his goons quickly entered as though they had been watching all along. They went to Greg's chair and released him from his bonds, throwing him onto his hands and knees. He rested there a moment, gathering his strength, before one of the Rat's goons kicked him hard in the stomach. Greg wretched and coughed but straightened up and slowly rose to his feet.

For the first time while standing, he found himself eye to eye with the Rat, and it was incredibly disconcerting. The man, for all his intimidation techniques, was actually several inches shorter than Greg was and actually had to tilt his head upward in order to look Greg in the eye. It was a very trivial thing to be proud about, but Greg drew a little bit of happiness from this small feat. At least he had outgrown his captor in one respect.

"Take him to his cell," the Rat ordered, his eyes never leaving Greg.

"Don't you want an answer to your question?" Greg asked.

The Rat smiled. "I'm sure I'll get it in time."

The goons tugged on Greg's arms and pulled him past the Rat, who didn't even turn to watch them leave. They were about to reach the door when the Rat's slippery voice echoed off the mirrored walls.

"And… tell me again, boy," he said as he turned around at last to look at Greg. "What is your name?"

Greg took a deep breath and hung his head low. "My name is Greg," he said as cheerily as he could, then turned and flashed the Rat a defiant grin over his shoulder. "What's yours?"

The Rat did not reply, but his goons pushed him forward and out the door into instant cool where his body immediately gulped in the cold relief. As they led him back to his small, lonely cement cell, Greg knew in the back of his mind that he would pay for that little quip later. But for now, he would revel in his tiny victories. Because in the end, they were all he had.


	4. Cat Tails

_**Author's Note:**_ First order of business: Shameless self promotion (once again, what's a WitchGirl fic without it?). First of all, everyone submit YOUR stories (yes YOU) to http://smilesincorporated.tripod. com (as usual, subtract the space). Kegel (our Fan Fiction Editor) has noted that we have very few stories, and she's dying to read some good ones so help her out, would you? All ships, styles, genres and ratings are welcome. Secondly, YouTube now hosts a trailer for this story, or as I call it a video "companion piece" to this fic. If you're incredibly impatient for my chapters (two days can seem long I suppose...) go watch that or... something. I was bored one day and made it and Kegel laughed at me. Speaking of Kegel, she once again gets credit for being an awesome beta and all-around nice gal. Oh. The link, yes, the YouTube link is here: http://www.youtube. com/watch?v(equal sign)hNkslGtQJIY (You know by now to subtract the space and that (equal sign) translates into an actual equal sign. If you're having trouble, just visit my YouTube profile and click the most recent video titled "Night Bleeds" at www.youtube. com/users/ambercinders).

Second order of business: Another reason I chose Greg is because I could take more liberties with his past as it's vaguely ambiguous. I stick to Canon details that he's released and added onto them (obviously after the scene with his father). There will be more elaboration and speculation on Greg's past, and if you don't like it, I'm sorry, but it's necessary for the story to progress as (if you haven't figured it out already) the mystery deals very heavily with Greg's father and his connections to his father, and in its own way blends past present and (eventually) future together to bring you a very confusingly constructed time line. If the time line ever throws you-- good. That's the intention, to confuse you. Greg has lost time. Why shouldn't you. On similar lines, Greg is alone. So why shouldn't you be in this story? This is told strictly, completely, and entirely from Greg's perspective (third person limited) and therefor we only ever know what he's thinking, and his opinions on what other people may be thinking. That means that you won't see much of the team until Greg sees the team. If/when that ever occurs, it will be much, much later in the story, with the exclusion of flashbacks. A nod to cause.A.scene for using this technique as well in her story Snowbound. One more humble than myself could say I'm stealing her idea. But as modesty is a concept I cannot conceive, I say I am reinventing it as my own ;o).

* * *

_Earlier… _

The door slamming didn't bring him out of his reverie, but her voice did.

"Greggo?"

He blinked and for the first time in hours pulled his eyes away from his father's corpse to look up at Sara Sidle who was eying him warily. The old nickname which used to make him smile when uttered on her lips now made his blood run cold.

"What are you still doing in here?" she asked.

"Just trying to fit the pieces together is all," Greg said honestly. "Like why he was in that lake, for instance."

Sara looked at the file in her hand. "Well…" she began. "Dental records are a bust, and though there was enough skin left on his right forefinger to get a fairly decent print, there are no hits in any database, not even work related. So it looks like this guy is going to remain a John Doe…"

"So you're not going to tell anyone about the brand then?" Greg noted.

Sara frowned at him. "It's a little ambiguous. It could have been related to whatever happened to him, I mean, we don't release odd bruises on John Does… What do you have in your hand?"

Greg looked like a deer in the headlights. He had been fiddling with something and now his fingers clasped tightly around it and he shoved it behind his back. "Nothing," he said abruptly and shoved it in his back pocket.

Sara opened her mouth, then noticed the corpse's hand. Her eyes narrowed. "Any particular reason why you stole our John Doe's ring Greg?"

He was the little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar before dinner. "I… I was collecting it. For evidence." He pulled the ring out of his pocket and held it out to her on his palm. The tarnished gold band glittered in the florescent light of the morgue.

Sara wasn't convinced as she plucked the ring from his open hand. "Then why did you lie to me about it?"

Greg was immediately uncomfortable as his hand flew to the back of his head and he mussed his hair. "I didn't lie, I told you it was nothing, and it is, I mean—look, it's engraved, but you can't make out what it says, and there's those two diamonds with a third niche, probably for a third diamond, and I was going to take it to Hodges to see if he could maybe, I dunno, make a rubbing of it, see the inscription better…"

But as he rambled Sara folded her arms and gave him a skeptical look. "What's going on, Greg? I let it go before, but I want to know."

Greg shrugged and rolled his eyes as he let out a frustrated sigh. "Can I have the ring back?"

"Why?" Sara demanded, her hand closing on it as she pulled her fist defensively against her chest.

"Sentimental value," Greg said sarcastically, although it was the truth.

"Greg, it's evidence, you can't just _take_ it—"

"But this is _different_, I _can_ take it!" Greg interrupted angrily. "Because…" He trailed off. His bottom lip quavered as he stood there a moment, unsure of what to say, staring at somewhere over his shoulder. But then, he came to his senses and glared at her, pushing past her angrily to get to the door. "I have to get out of here…"

"Wait!" Sara called, spinning on her heal to watch him leave. "Greg! What's going on with you?"

He hesitated in the doorway, but for no more than a minute and then left her alone. He made his way swiftly down the hall, not sure where he was going, but knowing it had to be far away from the lab. He needed room to breathe. He needed to clear his head. He needed to—

"Stop this!" Sara's voice echoed across the hall, making everyone else but Greg stop in their tracks. She sped up to a jog and finally grabbed Greg by his shoulder, forcing him to turn around so he would look at her. "Greg! No one knows better than I do about the consequences of getting emotionally involved in a case. And I know this sounds weird coming from me, but sometimes… Sometimes it really does help to just talk to someone about it. So would you please tell me what's going on?"

But Greg was shaking his head, though he did look exceptionally apologetic. "Sara, it's complicated, and I can't…" He looked up at her eyes, which were pleading and it almost broke his heart. "Look, just drop it. Please?"

"Maybe Grissom was right," Sara said. "Maybe you shouldn't be working this case."

"No," Greg said adamantly. "No, I can do it, I promise. Just let me try. I won't wig out on you again. I swear."

Sara gave him a skeptical work. "You have one more chance before I have Grissom pull you from this case," she said. "No more stealing evidence and no more _lying_ to me, OK?"

Greg gave her the biggest, most encouraging smile he could manage. "OK," he promised.

* * *

_The Present._

He should have never doubted their ingenuity after he'd seen what they could do with mirrors. But he couldn't help but hope that maybe, just maybe, for just this once they would have forgotten something.

In the hall was where he had attempted his escape.

"Attempted" being the key word.

And so, there he was, laying flat on his stomach on a metal slab, his hands bound somewhere above his head to the table.

The plan had been simple enough. They were leading him back to his cell, and though he was weak and a little delirious from the heat, he pretended he was worse off than he really was. So it had been their mistake to underestimate him. All he'd had to do was double over and pretend to cough and when they stopped with him, about to yank him to his feet again, his arms shot out, one at each side, hitting both of the guards right in the gut. Startled, they'd let him go, and he straightened up immediately, landing two punches on their backs which pushed them to the floor, the wind knocked out of them.

Having little idea what to do after that, he chose a direction (away from the sun room) and ran like hell. Unfortunately, he found, it had been the wrong direction. The door he'd run too was completely locked, and it didn't take time for the guards to get back on their feet and find him again. They had just been coming into his vision when the exhaustion became too much for Greg to handle anymore and he'd passed out.

He woke up on this table.

Greg heard the door open and close. Something was dragging on the ground, making a strange scratching sound.

"Good evening," said the oily voice of the Rat. "I didn't expect to be seeing you so soon."

"Is it evening already?" Though even as he asked it, Greg didn't know if it was even the same day as before.

"We were going to give you some water," the Rat said, ignoring his question. "So you could regain some of your strength. But after that little stunt you just tried to pull, I'm afraid that will have to wait."

Greg closed his eyes, still fighting his constant migraine on top of everything else. "You wouldn't happen to have some aspirin, do you?" It didn't hurt to ask.

_Crack!_ Greg flinched as the whip cut across his back but shrugged internally. He supposed it _did_ hurt to ask.

"Do you know what this is?" the Rat asked, holding up a very menacing looking whip made of nine leather ropes

Greg knew very well what it was. "A kinky sex toy? A jump rope? The newest fashion in belts?"

This earned him another lash and he gritted his teeth, his whole body tense as a tear escaped his eye. "You insolent maggot. Care to guess again?"

"It's a whip, OK?" Greg said, frustrated, tired of trying to be funny. "A Cat O' Nine Tails, old medieval shit. I'm a CSI you nut job, I know basically every torture weapon there is."

The Rat emitted a low laugh. "Of course you do," he said. "You're the Great Greg Sanders." Greg flinched again as nine leather ropes once more cut into the flesh of his back. "_You _know _everything_."

But there was one thing he didn't know that he desperately needed to. "Why?" he sobbed, his aching back and chronic migraine causing him too much fire in his brain for him to think clearly enough to be witty. It had to be more than just morbid curiosity, didn't it?

Greg tensed, readying himself for another blow, but the Rat did nothing. Greg allowed himself to relax a little and wonder at the Rat's hesitation. His footsteps echoed on the concrete floor.

"You didn't have to run away you know," he said.

Greg turned his head to look at the Rat and for the first time saw the tiniest hint of humanity in his eyes. The sound of his own broken breathing shook him to the core. "Why?" he asked again.

A smile curled at the Rat's lips as he folded his arms. He was enjoying this again, and whatever spark of humanity Greg had seen was gone. "We had a visitor today."

Greg closed his eyes and tried to make sense of his words. It took him a moment to realize that the Rat had changed the subject. "Visitor?"

The Rat nodded, his smile broadening. "Mm hm. A friend of yours, I do believe. Checking up on an old lead, or… what had he called it… A hunch."

Greg still didn't understand. "What are you…"

"His name was… Brown. Warrick Brown. Does that sound familiar to you?"

Greg wracked his scattered brain. "I… I don't…"

"Remember?" the Rat interrupted. "Hm. That _is_ interesting. Do you remember anything outside of these walls? Do you remember your own name?"

Greg was tired, this was true, but he was also tired of being the Rat's bitch. "No, I don't _understand_," Greg clarified adamantly. "I… I _know_, Warrick, we were…" but what they were, Greg couldn't say. Coworkers, yes, friends… maybe. He didn't know much about Warrick at all, and the little details he did know blended together in the gray fuzziness of his memories. Wasn't he married? What was his wife's name? Tuna. No. No, tuna was a fish. Or was tina a fish? No, _Tina_ was the name of Warrick's wife. _Tuna_ was a fish. Mm… Tina Turner with cheese on rye… He was so hungry he was willing to eat a singer just because her name sounded like fish. What other celebrity names sounded like fish? Ice T. Meatloaf. Wasn't Gwyneth Paltrow's daughter named Apple?

The Rat coughed and threatened Greg with the whip again, so the young CSI spoke as quickly as his scarce breath would allow, returning to the conversation at hand. What had they been discussing? Warrick! "What was he… I mean… what lead? What hunch?" It was about him, he knew it was about him. They were still looking for him, and more importantly, _they were on the right track!_ In spite of everything, the knowledge that his friends were searching for him still, after what felt like years after leaving that world, made hope swell in his chest.

But somehow, the Rat knew Greg's every thought, and exactly how to shatter him. "I'm not sure, really…" he said, as though trying to recall the encounter. "Oh. Yes. A young girl was murdered outside of the city limits and, well, apparently she had done business with us, but I didn't recognize her name. Pity I couldn't help him out, as a favor to you."

Greg let out a frustrated sigh as whatever last hope he had clung to vanished from his vision. But then it occurred to him that this was another one of the Rat's techniques. Warrick had never been there at all. He had to be lying. It was all a game, part of some sort of psychological warfare. Well, two could play at that game.

"Well," Greg said, as cool as he could manage. "If he stops by again, do send him my regards. And in case you forget to give him my name, it's Greg Sanders. You keep asking me what it is, maybe you should write it down so you remember."

_Crack!_ Greg tensed and screwed his face up at the searing pain that encompassed his back. He couldn't say he hadn't expected it. Why did he have to be such a smartass all the time?

_Because it's the only thing keeping you sane_, he reminded himself bitterly.

As the pain subsided, the Rat spoke again. "You don't believe me."

The stinging in Greg's back persisted. He felt the blood trickle down his sides. When he spoke, it was barely above a whisper. He had lost his voice. "Why would I trust you?" he wheezed.

Greg heard the sound of wheels on concrete. He wondered what new forms of torture the Rat had thought of now. But when he looked to the side, he saw nothing but a metal tray cart with what looked like an answering machine on it. The Rat cocked an eyebrow as he hit the play button.

"This is Warrick Brown, I'm calling on behalf of the CSI Crime Lab. Uh… We're investigating the rape and murder of Cindy Sharpe. She associated with one of your employees—"

He stopped the tape. Greg trembled on the cold operating table, his back burning, but his soul felt like ice. That was doubtlessly Warrick's voice. On the one hand, it felt fantastic to hear the soft half-forgotten sounds of an old friend's voice, but on the other it was devastating. He felt the familiar water and saline stinging his eyes. He no longer cared about retaining water. He barely cared about surviving. Warrick didn't even sound troubled. It was just another case, and what's worse, it was completely irrelevant to him. They had stopped trying. Or they had at the very least moved on to other cases. But… they had to still be looking for him, didn't they?

"I know what you're thinking," the Rat said, reading his mind again. "They've given up on you."

"No…" Greg whispered, refusing to believe it.

"You haven't even been on the news," the Rat remarked offhandedly. "Not even in the beginning. You see… You're not even old news, because that would imply that you were, at one point, 'news.' But you're nothing."

He was right. Of course he was right. Greg was nothing. He began to sob, and the staccato movements made his back groan in protest like a rusty door hinge. But that tiny voice in the back of his head that sounded disturbingly like his dead father told him to stop being such an idiot.

"OK…" Greg said. "If you won't answer my questions, just… answer just one…"

"Fire away, my friend," the Rat said.

"How long has it been?" he breathed, almost afraid that the answer would be 'eternity.'

"Since when?" The Rat was being difficult on purpose and it was really beginning to piss Greg off.

"You know damn well what I mean, asshole," he snapped.

"I have a question for you, actually," the Rat mused, sounding philosophical.

"No!" Greg said quickly, straining against his bonds. "You answer my question first you son of a bitch!"

He felt the Rat's hand on the back of his shoulder, tracing his still raw burn. "You know that when you mouth off, you get hurt. Even a mouse in a cage could figure that behavioralist training out. And yet, like an idiot, you persist anyways. Are you really stupid, or do you just _like_ to cause yourself pain?"

Greg closed his eyes and tried to imagine that he was somewhere else, that he wasn't lying on a cold metal table on his stomach with this hideous sadist tracing his wounds with his fingernails. "Just tell me how long it's been. _Please_."

"How long do you _think _it's been?" the Rat inquired.

Somehow, Greg knew that the Rat would never answer any of his questions. Deep inside of him, he'd always known that. But still, he felt he needed to know, he needed to ask. He needed to know how long he'd survived thus far on sheer strength of will and little else. If he knew that, he could gauge how much longer he could last. It couldn't have been longer than six months, but it was impossible to be shorter than a fortnight. And for someone who liked small time brackets, there was just way too much uncertainty there for Greg to handle. If it had been less than two weeks, he knew he'd be dead within the next five days, but if it had been more than six months, he had been gone from the real world for far too long and rejoining it would be impossible. Either way, he was going to die here.

"Feels like I just got here yesterday," Greg quipped sarcastically in response to the Rat's question.

The Rat chuckled and it was like nails on a chalkboard. "Oh, I bet it feels a might bit longer than that, Greggo."

Greg stiffened. "What did you call me?" he whispered.

The Rat hesitated for the second time in this conversation. All of a sudden, Greg heard the Cat O' Nine Tails whistle through the air as it came down one last time on his back. "You're just like your father," the Rat sneered angrily, no longer amused. "Your whole family is just a bunch of parasitic traitors!"

But the Rat had given him some very valuable information, and even through the pain, Greg's mind was striving to remember his words. The Rat had known his father after all, and his father had betrayed him. It explained the mark on his shoulder. Which meant…

"You've been around for twenty years…" Greg muttered. "Twenty years of this. How do you feel? Are you proud of it?"

The whip cracked again and Greg cried out and bit his tongue so hard it bled. He resolved that it was better if he just didn't talk anymore.

"You don't know jack shit about anything, so quit pretending like you do," the Rat said furiously. "We do what we have to."

Greg couldn't help it. He had to blurt it out. "But why do you have to do it to _me_?!" he whimpered, the tears streaming down his face.

The Rat raised the whip one more time and Greg braced himself for the blow he had known would come with the question, but the Rat did not move. Slowly, he lowered the whip and Greg could hear his heavy, steady breathing. "It's a very complicated world out there. We are raised to believe that there is such a thing as karma and just rewards. We are told that, 'Everything happens for a reason!' or 'God works in mysterious ways!' Well I have a revelation for you, my friend. In all likelihood, there is no God, and if there is, then he's just fucking with us. There is definitely no reason. We are tiny, insignificant bacteria in the boil on the ass of a rat. When things happen, they just happen. And when somebody gives you one of those bullshit filler answers when you ask them 'why?' it's because they're afraid to tell you the truth. I'm not. You think that this is some… political statement, or some… strange vendetta against your father, well I hate to break it to you kid, but you're _wrong_. You can't blame this on anyone else. You came nosing into our business uninvited and unprepared and you were the perfect candidate for our program."

"And what program is that?" Greg whispered.

The Rat dropped the whip. Greg could hear him walking away from him. "Why don't you just give up, kid? Why the fuck do you keep putting yourself through all of this bullshit?"

There was something strange in the Rat's voice. For the first time, it wasn't sadistic glee or violent rage. He was genuinely asking. He really wanted to know. And Greg didn't understand why the question was so damn important to him. But whatever the reason, Greg knew it was the only leverage over the Rat that he had.

He chose his words carefully. "Why do you talk like you care about what happens to me?"

He heard the Rat turn around and pace back to the table where he was within Greg's line of sight again. He let out a low sigh and stared at Greg for a long time. Finally, he reached out, and Greg prepared himself for whatever pain his touch would bring. But to his utter shock, the Rat untied his binds. Greg's arms immediately retracted and he rolled over onto his side as he massaged his wrists, which were covered in old and new rope burns from being tied up so often. As his shoulder blades moved, he flinched, disturbing the wounds and the dry blood that had clotted on his back.

"Sit up," the Rat ordered monotonously, and Greg obeyed, swinging his sore legs over the edge of the table and wincing again at his stinging back. He looked up at the Rat, pleading for answers, and for the shortest of moments, he thought that maybe he would finally get some.

And then, the Rat decked him so hard in the face, he fell over the table backwards and all the lights went out.


	5. A Good Kid

_**Author's Note:**_ Kegel is a totally awesome beta. Anyways, I warn you now that the next chapter really takes "weird" to a new level. More liberties with Greg's past are taken in this chapter. I suppose I should clarify that outside of canon details that you recognize, everything else (including the names and characters of Greg's parents) are completely invented on my part for the purpose of advancing this story. Thanks again, and happy fourth of July!

* * *

_Earlier…_

Sara handed Greg the results from the analysis of the ring. "Archie took digitals and helped me clean up the inscription on the interior," she explained even as Greg looked at it. "_Mark and Olivia, October 1964_. If you ask me, it's a wedding band."

"Bright deduction, Captain Obvious," Greg muttered, staring at the inscription.

Sara folded her arms, annoyed. "Well are you going to just stare at that thing all day or are you going to help me look up wedding registries for Mark and Olivia in 1964." She turned to the computer and sat down in a chair.

But Greg laughed. "Nah, that's not their wedding date," he blurted unintentionally.

She looked over her shoulder at him, a curious frown etched in her pale brow. "How do you know that?"

Greg licked his lips and shrugged. "Well it's not always the wedding date on the ring, right? I mean, if it was, don't you think it would have a specific day? And on top of that, we don't even know if this is Mark, I mean… our corpse could have stolen Mark's ring, did you think of that?"

But Sara gave him a shrewd look. "It doesn't hurt to check," she said.

Grissom suddenly appeared in the doorway and called both of their names, making them look up at him. All the color drained from Greg's already pallid face as he saw three official looking men standing behind a grim-looking Grissom.

"Who are the suits?" he asked and before Grissom could respond, one of them pushed past him and extended his hand to Greg.

"My name is Daniel Morgan, and I'll be taking over this case from here on out." He was an aging man, older than Grissom by a good ten years, but he was trim and his hair was well-groomed. He took great care in his businesslike appearance.

Greg did not take the proffered hand as he stood his ground. "But… this is _our_ case."

"Not anymore," said Morgan. "You're officially off of it, you and CSI Sidle both." He gave Sara a polite nod, to which she glowered in return. "This is government business now."

"May I be so bold as to ask which branch of government will be handling this case?" Greg asked.

"No, you may not," Morgan replied simply.

Greg scowled. "You have _no idea_ what this case could mean," he snapped, too furious to think before he spoke. "I mean, this guy—"

"Is under our purview," Morgan interrupted. "And… I'm sorry, your name is Sanders, or am I mistaken?"

Greg cast a glance to his left where Sara was watching him with wide eyes before he replied. "Yeah, last time I checked."

Morgan nodded. "Dr. Grissom said you knew about the brand on his shoulder."

Greg shot daggers at his supervisor, who battled them with his own stony gaze. The young CSI then turned his attention back to Morgan. "No, I— I didn't know, Dr. Grissom misunderstood."

"Miss Sidle, Dr. Grissom…" Morgan said, turning to the other two CSIs. "May I please speak with Mr. Sanders in private for a moment?"

Grissom nodded and disappeared from the doorway, followed by the other two suits. Sara slowly got to her feet, looking from Greg to Morgan quizzically. She caught Greg's eye and waited for his silent approval. His nod gave it to her and she smiled at him to help boost his confidence. She squeezed his shoulder and to his surprise, took his hand in hers before she, too, left the room and Greg was alone with Daniel Morgan. Greg's fingers closed around something cold before he realized that Sara had, for some strange reason, passed the gold wedding band off to him.

Morgan opened a file and began to read aloud. "Your name is Gregory Anthony Hojem-Sanders, son of Mark Anthony Sanders, correct?" Greg swallowed, before he nodded and Morgan smiled like he had just solved a very difficult riddle. "You know that the print you logged into your database didn't bring up any names, well, it did on ours. We got a red flag the minute the match was made and came here right away. I assume by your words and Dr. Grissom's description of your behavior that you've deduced by now that your John Doe is in fact your father."

Again, Greg nodded. "And you're the agency he worked for, I'm assuming," he said flatly. "The one I wasn't supposed to ask questions about."

"You're a clever boy," Morgan told him as he scribbled some notes in the file. "Tell me, what do you know about what your father did?"

"Nothing," Greg said coldly. "Only that he disappeared on one of _your_ missions. He missed my fifteenth birthday, you know. And I thought he just didn't want to come home. You guys killed him, didn't you?"

"An easy assumption to make, but an altogether incorrect one," Morgan said quickly, closing the file. "We did not kill your father."

"If he was killed on assignment for you, then you as good as signed his death certificate." Greg was unforgiving.

Morgan nodded. It looked to Greg as if he was bored with the conversation. He tucked the file under his arm. "Stay nearby, Mr. Sanders," Morgan said. "We may need you to answer a few questions for us about your father."

"Yeah," Greg muttered, pushing past Daniel Morgan. "I'll stay nearby."

"And kid?" Morgan said, turning around as he watched Greg leave. "Your father was one of the best."

"Whatever," Greg said before slamming the door.

Sara was waiting for him outside. Her arms were folded and her eyes were searching. "What was that about?" she asked softly, calmly. It was just a question, and he could answer it or not, and she was making sure that he knew it wasn't a demand.

Greg appreciated the courtesy and smiled at her to show it. "Nothing, they just… wanted to know what we found out about the case. A debriefing, so to speak."

Sara nodded, accepting this vague answer. "OK," she said.

All of a sudden, Greg felt terrible about lying to her. "Sara…"

But she took a deep breath and smiled at him. "Grissom has a new case for us. You game?"

Greg looked at the ring in his palm, then closed his fingers around it. He looked up at Sara and smiled apologetically at her. "Actually, I think I'm going to go home, if that's OK with you and Grissom."

Sara nodded, seeming glad that he was finally going to take a break. "Yeah, I think that'll be OK. You look like you need the rest."

So Greg said his goodbyes and headed for the locker room. Though unlike Sara supposed, he wasn't intending on resting at all.

* * *

_The Present._

He felt kind of like a cartoon character that had been hit over the head with a sledgehammer. When he opened his eyes, he saw red and blue stars exploding on a black canvas background. He blinked a few times, but they were still there. His migraine was worse than ever. He wondered if it would ever go away.

He sat up slowly and winced as the wounds on his back were disturbed. He noticed he was shivering and it was far from cold in his now all too familiar little cell. He wondered vaguely if he had contracted septicemia from the still oozing wounds on his back but then deemed that thought irrelevant to his plight. If he had indeed developed blood poisoning, what did it matter anyway in the long run? Death was death, and treated or not, septicemia would at least be a more dignified way to die than giving up.

He would never forget his name.

Nonetheless, as he shivered and sweated at the same time, he drew his knees close to his bruised chest and closed his eyes, trying to consciously slow his rapidly beating heart and quick breathing. He glanced to his right and saw a plate of unrecognizable green food, but whatever it was he would take it. He reached out quaking hands to the plate and saw red and purplish bruises on his arm. He rolled his eyes as his stomach lurched at the thought of eating. _Great. I'm so sick, my body doesn't even want food. You have a fan-fucking-tastic sense of humor, God_. But he knew he had to eat it, blood poisoning or not.

He wondered if he should tell his captors that he had an infection. He wondered if they would treat it. He wondered if they really _needed_ him to stay alive, at least until he gave them what they wanted.

And what _did_ they want, anyway? Did they want Greg to lose his mind so much he didn't remember his name, or for Greg to at least pretend to have forgotten his name as a form of surrender? Could that _possibly_ be the only reason all this was happening to him?

He lifted the green muck to his lips with trembling hands and forced it down, feeling his stomach churning. Luckily, he kept it down, and ate more. It tasted rather like spinach, and Greg hoped to God that it _was_ spinach. He was glad for the minimal sustenance. He needed his strength. He was still intending on escaping. Somehow. The details of the plan would come to him later, he was sure.

How long had he been knocked out? Greg decided he had now officially lost any concept of time at all. For all he knew, he could have been in a coma for weeks. The way the septicemia was developing, he guessed it had been at least a day, maybe a few days.

He tried to lie back down on the floor, but his back protested every movement. Eventually he became relatively comfortable lying on his side staring at the door. For a while, to keep his mind working, he sang his favorite songs over and over again in his head. He found that art was a brilliant way to keep sane. If he remembered music, or movies, or even his favorite paintings, he could remain somewhat connected to the cultured world which he was otherwise isolated from. He had explored Escher's multi-dimensional staircase room more than once and had taken a bite out of the apple that hung in front of Magritte's bowler-hat-man's face.

He reminded himself not to think about food as his stomach gurgled in support of this new decision. The green stuff he had forced down may not stay there for long if the bacteria in Greg's blood had anything to say about it, and as it was, it was the only food he'd eaten in days, probably. Greg imagined the little bacteria that swam around inside of him. He pictured them as almost amoeba like, their flagellum acting like tiny hands that waved to him on a cellular level. Their organelles formed eyes and mouths and told him that he resembled a flying Madagascan lemur. He told them it was because of the bags under his eyes and his wide pupils, but they said that it was because of his long striped tail. He looked behind him to prove he had no tail and found that the amoeba-like bacteria were correct.

It took Greg a little more than a moment to realize he was dreaming when he reasoned that it was impossible for a human to grow a lemur tail in a matter of seconds, and even more impossible for bacteria to resemble amoebas, considering amoebas weren't even in the same kingdom as bacteria. It was like comparing a plant to an animal. Which, Greg reasoned, had been done before. Just look at such plants as the tiger lily or the dogwood or the pussy willow.

Greg blinked his eyes opened and laughed at himself. Why was it that even in his dreams he was a science nerd? Differentiating between the different biological kingdoms… Like any _non-_scientist would have dreamed about something that dorky. So he closed his eyes again and consciously allowed himself to drift off into another dream, a warmer dream, and yet a dream filled with so much forewarning, Greg almost figured everything out in his subconscious…

* * *

_Very much earlier…_

He had closed his door and turned up the radio until it was blaring, hoping it would drown out the sounds of his parents fighting again. But he heard something shatter and knew his mother had just thrown a plate at his father, and now she was yelling at him again because he'd make her break her best china.

It was an old and endless argument that always occurred at least once when his father was home at night. She would want to know why he'd missed dinner the night before and he would tell her that if he didn't work as hard as he did, she wouldn't have any food to prepare for dinner in the first place. It would go back and forth like this a while, and then she would bring Greg into it. Greg always hated when his mother did that. He didn't like being used as a guilt mechanism, but he did have to admit he sympathized with his mother. He wanted his father home just as much as she did. And after they argued about what was best for Greg, his mother would eventually demand to know the slut his father was sleeping with, and he would tell her that the only slut he was sleeping with was her. And then she would say, "Not tonight you're not!" and he'd end up on the couch.

Greg turned the dial on his radio up a little louder. They had just played one of his favorite Pearl Jam songs and were giving away tickets to their next concert in May and Greg would be damned if he missed it. His mother had told him on countless occasions he could only go if his father took him, but Greg was fairly confident that his father would come through for him on this. So long as his dad knew how important this was to him, he would never let Greg down.

His fingers frantically dialed and he let it ring, but even as he called, someone already beat him to the punch. Greg hung up as he listened to the excited screams of the lucky sons of bitches who had just won the Pearl Jam tickets that should have been his.

He fell back on his bed and stared at the Def Leopard poster that covered his ceiling, letting out a long and heavy sigh. He closed his eyes and almost drifted off to sleep when there was a knock at his door. He opened one eye and gave whoever was there the go-ahead.

His father slowly opened the door and smiled apologetically at his son. "Hey there, Greggo."

Greg sat up in his bed and returned the smile. "Hey, Dad," he said. "You generally go for a walk after you and Mom fight. What makes this different?"  
His father winced at the question then relaxed. He closed the door and leaned against it, shaking his head at Greg. "It bothers me that the… heated discussions between your mother and me have become so routine that you actually predict the outcome."

Greg shifted on his bed and tilted his head to the side, eying his father quizzically. "Are you guys going to get a divorce?"

His father frowned before shaking his head. "No, no, Greggo. Not if I can help it."

"Why not?" Greg asked, sincerely curious. For a long time now, he had truly thought that maybe it would be better if they just divorced. It would definitely be quieter. "I mean, you're obviously not happy with her, and she's not happy with you, so wouldn't you two just maybe be happier if you weren't together?"

His dad's shoulders fell as he walked over and sat next to his son on the bed. He sighed and his tongue shot out to lick his lips as he tried to find the right words to explain it without giving himself away. "Greg… I love your mother very much."

"I know, I know," Greg laughed, throwing a pillow at his dad. "And you and mom both love me very much, but you need to see other people or you guys just aren't _in_ love anymore, or she's like a very good friend— Dad, I'm not a kid. You don't have to explain anything to me. It's obvious."

His father laughed. "If only it _were_ obvious," he said. "It would make the explaining part a lot easier. But you're a bright kid, Greg. You take things as they come and you make the best of it. That quality will get you far in life, you know."

"If you can't make the best of a bad situation," Greg said logically, "then what else is there to do but sit and complain about it? That won't change anything."

"Wise words, for a fourteen-year-old brat," his dad chuckled.

"I'm almost fifteen you know," Greg pointed out. "Will you be here for my birthday?"

His father smiled sadly. "We'll see, kiddo. We'll see."

"So when do the lawyers come in?" Greg asked. "Do I get to live with you or with mom, or is there joint custody? Can you have me during the weeks and mom can have me on the weekends? You're great with my physics homework."

"That reminds me, how's that senior calculus class working for you?" his father asked, changing the subject. "Your mother said you got a C on your last test. Are you sure it's not too hard for you?"

"Eh, you win some, you lose some," Greg reasoned with a shrug. "I accidentally found the derivative of the πx as opposed to ½πx and Ms. Hancock is a bitch when it comes to being precise."

"I won't have my son using language like that," his father said sternly.

"Why not?" Greg asked. "You do. And besides, at least I didn't call her Ms. Cockhand."

"That's enough, Greg," his father said harshly. "Just because I say and do things doesn't mean you should mimic me."

"Right," Greg said, nodding. "Like, you fight with mom, but I'm never allowed to yell at her and you leave at odd hours of the night and I have a strict curfew and you cuss and put your feet up on the coffee table and I have to clean up your messy footprints. I know."

"Greg, there's a reason I do the things I do," his father said quietly. "I'm not a good person. But you are. And I want you to stay that way. And so the last thing I want is for my son to grow into somebody like me."

Greg looked up at his father, who was hanging his head and staring at his shoes. He cocked his head to the side, examining him. "But… But I want to be like you, Dad. I want to wear designer sunglasses and be allowed to eat in the living room and make lots of money and travel to exotic places and—"

"No," his father said sharply, looking up suddenly and fixing Greg with a pointed gaze. "No, Greg, you promise me something and you promise me right now. You're going to go to college and then you're going to get a job, a nice, safe, _normal_ job behind a desk somewhere where nothing could ever go wrong, you hear me? Where nothing could ever turn you into something you hate. Because as cool as I may seem to you right now, I am a very unhappy person, and do you know why?"

Stunned, Greg shook his head.

His father continued. "It's because I neglected the people I love most in this world, and that's your mother and you. It's because I chose my career over my family and it should always be family first. It's because I follow orders without question no matter where they come from or what they are, and sometimes I have to do things that I'm not proud of. Ugly things. And every time I do, I lose a little bit more respect for myself. And I don't want you to have that life. I don't want you making my mistakes all over again. I don't want you to blindly follow orders if it goes against your core beliefs as a human being. If someone tells you to do something and you don't understand, ask them why. Because sometimes, the answer will surprise you. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"

Slowly, Greg nodded and his father sighed.

"Good," he said, gathering his son up into a hug. He rested his chin on Greg's head as he took deep breaths to calm down.

"Dad, you scare me sometimes," Greg said.

His father laughed and pulled away from Greg. "Promise me that you'll stay a good kid, Greg. Promise me that you'll always make the best of whatever life throws at you and most importantly, Greg… Promise me you'll never let anything turn you into something you don't want to be. It's OK to make mistakes, just… when you realize you've made them, don't repeat them. If you find yourself on the wrong track, get off it as soon as you can. Don't continue down it just because it's familiar and you're afraid to stop. OK, Greg?"

Greg nodded deliberately before a wacky grin spread across his features. "You're so weird sometimes, Dad."

His father laughed heartily at Greg's endless ability to make light of any situation. "Well then that must make you weird too. After all, you carry my genes, my crazy little progeny, and the apple never falls far."

Mark Sanders rose to his feet and made his way to the door before he paused and flashed Greg what must have been a hereditarily mischievous grin over his shoulder. "Hey kiddo," he said slyly. "How about a quick game of midnight b-ball, one on one. Mano y mini-mano."

"I resent that," Greg said, leaping to his feet all the same. "I'm almost as tall as you now, you know."

"Oh, you'll never get there, Greggo," his father said, opening Greg's bedroom door and ushering his son out. "Now quietly. Your mother will have my head on a platter if she finds out about this."

Greg dutifully kept his silence as he and his father snuck down the stairs. They could hear Greg's mother washing dishes in the kitchen as they made their way to the door. His father reached it first, but Greg paused by the kitchen door and all his playful excitement dissolved as he listened there a moment.

Beyond the sound of running water and clanking dinnerware, Greg could hear the stifled sobs of his mother as she tried to drown her sorrows in chores. His heart plummeted into the pit of his stomach to think of her so heartbroken, and for a moment he considered not going out with his father at all and going in to comfort her instead. But when he looked back to his father, who was holding the front door open for him and anxiously waiting, he knew that this was a chance he wasn't going to get very often and so he smiled and ran to the door.

His father switched on the porch light and tossed Greg the basketball and the father and son headed into the driveway for what was to be their first and last midnight basketball game.


	6. Gambling With the Grim Reaper

_**Author's Note:**_ Here's your weirdness, as promised. Kegel and I discussed a very squirm-worthy scene today which I'm probably going to leave in. She claims it's not that bad, maybe it's just because I have a phobia of the thing I wrote about... On the bright side, the next chapter is more mystery, less torture, so you'll have a few more puzzle pieces to fit together. :o) Oh, and this is the philosophical bits I mentioned earlier. It's just babble, really. I blame my Philosophy 101 I took a few quarters ago.

* * *

_The Future…?_

His eyes moved back and forth. White silk on either side of him. But luckily, it was an open casket, so he could finally see the sun, in its warm orange glow, and the blue sky that surrounded it.

The strangest people were at his funeral. He wondered why they were there. Ecklie was there, wearing a simple black suit and his usual straight-faced down-to-business sneer. He looked at his watch, then back down at the coffin as he and several others stood over it while someone droned on about the life of Greg Sanders. He was probably impatient to do his job and then leave. Office politics. He was only there to look good.

Next to Ecklie was his father, who was on an ancient cell phone from the 1990s, yacking away into his phone in Japanese. Momentarily, Greg wished he spoke Japanese, if only so he could gather a better understanding of his father by listening.

Across from Ecklie and his father were Sara and Nick. She was pouring red wine into his glass and smiling and laughing and… was she flirting with him? And just as the thought occurred to him, she tossed her head back and let out a laugh that would make angels cry out in envy.

"Oh you," she giggled as she leaned her forehead against Nick's and kissed him.

At the end of the casket stood Catherine with folded arms as she stared down at Greg, her gaze almost judging although Greg couldn't fathom why, or what she was judging.

"Such a shame…" he heard her mutter. "He had such a nice face. Did they have to go and flay him like that? He's much less attractive without his skin."

Warrick came into view next to her. Hanging off of his arm was a giant tuna fish with red lipstick and blue eye shadow. "You know, Tuna was thinking about a threesome after the funeral. You game?"

She smirked at him and winked at the fish.

His mother's voice drifted into his ears and he saw her standing on the other side of his father. "Did you take good care of my boy, Mr. Grissom?"

Grissom, who was standing next to her and clad in a green and red plaid suit, replied very sincerely. "Oh, we did the best we could, Mrs. Sanders. What pieces we could find of his skin we tried to sew back onto his body, but we didn't have all his skin, so it's kind of… patchy."

"Oh, it'll do I suppose," his mother said. "As long as he doesn't get blood on his Sunday clothes." She hit her husband in the stomach. "Mark! Pay attention!"

"I _am_ paying attention!" Greg's father snapped, but then suddenly turned back to the phone. "Mr. Yomoto? What was the score? 18 to 17, _damn_, and in the bottom of the ninth, who would have guessed it? I guess I owe you three thousand yen, don't I?"

"Greg?"

Greg blinked and turned his head in his casket to see that Sara was no longer above him, but right next to him. She was lying on her side in the now larger coffin and her head was propped up by her elbow, her fingers entangled in her hair. She smiled at him as she shook her head.

"You have such weird dreams."

"I wish you were tuna fish so I could eat you," Greg said.

She closed her eyes and chuckled softly before opening them again. "I wanted to give you something," she told him.

"Please tell me it's Chap Stick," Greg begged.

"Not quite," Sara replied. "But it might help you hold on just a little longer. Until we find you."

"You're still looking?" Greg grinned like an excited school boy.

She nodded. "You bet your ass we are."

Whereas this assertion should have encouraged Greg, it simply discouraged him more. "You're not real."

She ignored this and reached out her free hand, taking Greg's hand in hers. "Here," she said, opening her fingers and pressing the cold metal band into his palm. "Your mother wants you to keep it safe."

Greg looked at the old wedding band in his hand, then up at Sara. "What am I supposed to do with this?" he asked.

"Take care of it," she answered.

"But I don't even have it anymore," Greg whined. "They took it from me when they took everything else from me. My gun, my clothes, my dignity…"

"All things you can get _back_," Sara said. "Dignity included. You know where the main office is."

"I don't," Greg said, shaking his head.

"You _do_," Sara insisted. "You were there once, if you just think back you can remember the path they led you down. This is a crazy maze but if you remember the twists and turns then you can master it. You're mommy's little genius, Greggo. You can figure it out."

"I miss my mom…" Greg sobbed.

"Just keep fighting Greg," Sara whispered as she faded into blackness. "You just have to keep fighting…"

* * *

_The Present._

Greg's eyes fluttered open. He was in his cell. Still. No surprise there. But he wasn't shaking anymore, and he wasn't lying on his side. He was on his back, and what's more, it didn't hurt.

Greg shot up immediately upon this realization and his fingers flew to his chest where bandages wrapped around him, the first form of clothing he had worn in… well, a while. He looked over his shoulder and saw that they were far from clean. They were bloodstained on his back, but the mere fact that they existed startled Greg. His stomach moaned angrily, reminding him that he was desperately hungry again.

He looked around. Next to him was another plate, this time it seemed to be a slab of indiscernible meat. He wasn't the only one in that cell who was hungry though, as a particularly large cockroach decided to make the meat its dinner as well. A part of Greg wanted to name the cockroach and talk to it like a friend, but then another part of him told him to stop acting like Grissom.

He shrugged, noting that beggars could never be choosers and snatched the meat up with his hands, dusting the cockroach off. The bug fell onto its back and its legs wiggled in the air momentarily before it somehow got back on its feet and scurried away to one of the many holes in the walls. Greg's teeth tore into the tough meat, which he only vaguely wondered if it was cooked thoroughly. Food was food, and he had new found respect for the homeless. Even as he ate, he was so hungry, he contemplated chasing after the fled cockroach and swallowing it as a desert.

As he ate the meat, he figured he must have been passed out for a while for them to have moved him without him waking up. In addition to that, the last time he'd been awake they had given him food, and they only fed him sparsely at intermittent periods when Greg felt as though one more minute without food would be the death of him. He had probably fallen into some dreamless delirium brought on by the septicemia. He decided to turn to his wounds, which last time he had been awake were fresh, for a more accurate timeline. He pulled the bandages down slightly to get a look at the welts the whips had left behind. They had closed and scabbed over, but they weren't discolored as he had expected, or oozing puss. They must have taken care of his infection entirely. His back was healing nicely, actually, and looked as though they were at least a few days old by now. He would never know how long he had been suffering from the feverish effects of the septicemia, but it was obviously better now, so he pulled up the bandages.

He was glad he had slept through most of that. But now, he was awake. And he was alone. And he was afraid all over again. It was just like it was in the beginning. They had locked him away for days at a time without human contact. It was all Greg could do to hold onto his sanity. It had been then when he developed the technique of singing songs and telling himself his favorite stories from childhood in order to keep himself company. He clung to the memories of his friends for dear life. They had replayed so many times in his mind, Greg felt they were like a record he had worn out. What did Grissom look like? What did Sara smell like? What did Nick sound like?

And then he remembered Warrick's voice on the answering machine. His words had been far from comforting, but at least it was his voice. It was something familiar. The Rat hadn't known it at the time, but he had actually given Greg something very valuable to hold onto.

There was no better time than the present for Greg to plan his second escape attempt. He was well rested, his back wasn't killing him, and he was no longer feverish. On top of it all, he had successfully won a battle against a sizable insect opponent for his dinner. All in all, Greg was feeling pretty good about himself.

That is, until the door to his tiny cell opened.

It wasn't the Rat. It was someone Greg didn't recognize. He had broader shoulders and looked to be a good ten or fifteen years younger than the Rat and that meant he was probably stronger.

"Who are you?" Greg asked, blinking in the face of the alien light.

This new tormentor said nothing, but simply grunted and the two usual goons entered the room and went swiftly to Greg, grabbing him by the arms and hoisting him to his feet.

"Right," Greg said, rolling his eyes. "The other guy didn't tell me his name, why would you? You look like a Steve. Can I call you Steve?"

The man punched him hard in the stomach and it was made worse by the fact that he wore iron knuckles. Greg's stomach churned and threatened to regurgitate the bad meat he had just forced it to swallow.

"Chuck it is!" Greg wheezed.

"They told me you were funny," Chuck said in a low, gruff voice.

Greg looked up at him, a bead of sweat stinging his left eye. "Yeah? I have a reputation around here. Well don't I feel like the most popular kid in school?"

This earned him another punch in the stomach and Greg actually felt the vomit rise in the back of his throat, but he forced it down. But pain was an old friend of his by now, and he knew that this was just the overture. He wondered what the main show would be.

"I don't like funny," Chuck clarified. He nodded at the door and his goons who grabbed his arms and hauled him out of his cell back into that cold gray hallway. They took Greg to another strange cement room. In the center of it was a wooden board with bonds on either end of it. Greg closed his eyes. He was feeling better than he had felt since before he'd come here and now, he knew whatever Chuck had in store for him, it would destroy every last bit of health he had recovered.

"Take his feet," Chuck said and Greg cast him a curious glance.

For now, he was healthy, and therefore feeling daring. "You're not gonna infect me with fungus, are you?" Even the two cronies were thrown by this as they hesitated. Chuck cocked an eyebrow. Greg continued. "Because this one time, my boss… Never mind, you kinda had to be there."

Chuck nodded at his cronies and they pulled Greg's feet out from under him, making him fall fat on his back. He hit his already pounding head hard on the pavement and the wind was knocked out of him, not to mention it aggravated the wounds on his back. He blinked as the familiar cartoon stars exploded in front of his eyes. He was vaguely aware that they were dragging him by his feet towards the wooden board and pulled him up it so he was upside down, strapping his feet in the bonds at the top and his arms in the bonds at the bottom. As he stared at Chuck who looked as if he was walking on the ceiling to Greg now, he couldn't help but smile.

"Well this is one way to look at my situation differently," he said. "My therapist is always telling me I need to see the world from a different perspective."

Chuck rotated a nearby crank and as it stretched Greg's limbs he realized with sudden horror that it wasn't a board he rested on… but the rack. "Did I mention I don't like funny?"

Greg closed his eyes and tried to nod as all the blood rushed to his head. "Right, OK, I get it, you're going to stretch me to death, but do you have to do it upside down?"

"They told me you thought you knew things too," Chuck said, walking over to look down at Greg.

Greg blinked at the man's feet. "You have nice shoes. Combat boots are so kickass." He sighed sadly and pouted. "I used to have shoes. I miss them."

Greg heard the crank turn again and closed his eyes tight as it pulled at his arms and legs until they were almost out of their sockets. "OK!" he cried out. "I get it! You don't like funny!"

Chuck tilted his head as if to try and see Greg right side up and cracked a smile so sinister, he could give the Rat a run for his money. "I like that you think you know things. I think it's funny."

"But you don't like funny," Greg deadpanned, looking up at the broad-shouldered man.

He laughed evilly. "I like this kinda funny."

"What happened to the other guy?" Greg asked, suddenly desperate to know. "Does he not like me anymore or something? Was it something I said?"

Chuck ignored him. "What is your name?"

"Not that shit again," Greg groaned. "What is your guys' fascination with my fucking _name_?"

"Can you tell me your name?" Chuck pressed, his eyebrows raised in interest. He looked almost disappointed.

Greg didn't like to disappoint people. "Yeah, I can tell you my name. I'm Greg Sanders you dumb shit. And just what are you going to do about it?"

An excited smile spread across his face. Greg saw him raise a hose in his hand and suddenly it all clicked into place. The rack was just to hold him in place. Pulling at his limbs was just an added bonus. The real technique all rested in the next few seconds, as the first few drops of water trickled out of the hose, and then he turned it on.

Greg closed his mouth as fast as possible, but ended up spluttering anyways as the water flooded his nasal cavity and soon enough his mouth. He swallowed what he could and tried not to breathe in the water as he fought to breathe any air at all. His world began to spin and he saw bloody fireworks behind his closed eyelids as the water rushed in his ears and he sincerely thought, _This is it, I'm going to die._ He was even more horrified at the fact that this thought didn't terrify him as much as it used to. Had death finally become the better alternative?

Through his hazy vision, he saw his father dressed in a black suit and tie in the corner flipping a coin. He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a golden pocket watch and looked at it before putting it away again. He looked up, and their eyes met. He flashed his son the playful smile Greg had stolen and called his own.

And just as quickly as he appeared he was gone again and Greg's lungs struggled for oxygen and burned for relief. The water was being poured down his gullet, making his head inflate like a balloon and almost rise off his head. Water was in his eyes, in his nose, in his ears, and his mouth and he couldn't escape it. All that time he'd been dehydrated and prayed for water, and finally it came in abundance. He hated how his captors used his only hopes against him.

And then, his straining, spluttering lungs unable to stand anymore, his synapses fired one last time and he passed out.

* * *

_The Future._

His father was leaning in the doorway, flipping the coin over and over again. Greg was lying on the floor on his back, staring up at the ceiling of the Las Vegas Crime Lab. Not any lab, the DNA Lab. What used to be, two lifetimes ago, _his_ lab. His home away from… No. His home _period_.

"You look a little blue, Greggo," his father said cheerily. "What's the matter?"

Greg was panting. "I'm dead, aren't I?"

His dad chuckled and shook his head, but didn't answer the question. "They sure did a number on you, didn't they?"

"When I was ten, and I came home after I'd been beat up at school, and I told you that I felt weak and stupid because I couldn't stand up to them… Do you remember what you told me?"

"The story of Mark Anthony," his father said quietly. "You're right. He told you all about how his namesake fought fiercely and won. He told you that in the end, the only person who could kill Mark Anthony was himself. He told you not to let anyone ever hold any power over you. He said to never let anyone make you feel insignificant, or less than what you are, because you are no better or worse than anyone else. It's cute how you draw strength from your memories. I've been watching you _very_ closely these past few days."

Greg sat up and looked at him quizzically. He slowly got to his feet and leaned on one of the counters in the lab. "You're not my father."

He smiled. "I can be anything you want me to be, Greg," he said. "I am a part of everything. I rule the dead and strike unnecessary fear into the hearts of the living. People often see me as some gruesome hooded beast, but in reality, I'm whatever you make of me. A nightmare for some. For others, as a saviour I come. My hands, cold and bleak, it's the warm hearts they seek. What am I?"

"The Grim fucking Reaper here to personally deliver my ticket to the grave," Greg said bitterly, shaking his head. "Well, I'm not ready to go yet."

"I'm afraid you don't have a choice in that matter, Greggo," the Grim Reaper told him, still flipping his coin.

"Wanna bet?" Greg asked.

"Yes, actually," Death replied. "I do love a good gamble. What are the terms?"

"Uh…" Greg hadn't thought that far ahead. Then the flipping coin caught his eye. "OK. OK, how about we bet on the coin toss? That's not a double-sided coin or anything, is it?"

The coin was in the air, but Death snatched it with a white-gloved hand and held it out to Greg on his palm. It glimmered in the blue florescent lights of the lab. Greg took it and looked at it. It was a silver dollar, circa 1794. It had a heads, and it had a tails just like any other coin. He handed it back to the Grim Reaper.

"OK," he said. "Toss it, and if it lands heads, then… Then I get another shot at this. And I… I don't die for… for a good long time yet."

"And if it lands tails?" Death asked.

Greg bit his lip and held his breath. "Then you can do whatever you want with me, I'm yours, mind, body and soul."

The Grim Reaper grinned again. "You do realize that either way, you lose right?" he said. "Do you really want to go back there? I mean, I've watched plenty of people suffer through less than what you've been through and have been mine much sooner than you. Are you absolutely _sure_ you want to live through this for an indefinite amount of time?"

Greg hesitated before nodding. "Yeah. Yes. I mean… No matter what, living is _always_ better than the alternative… right? I mean, you're Death. You should know."

But the Grim Reaper was looking skeptical. "I don't know, Greg…" he said. "See, people always assume that. They're scared shitless of me when there are other things in this world far worse than I. Grief, war, suffering… All things you've seen first hand. You have no idea what kind of things I could give you, or if it's better or worse than what you already have. You're afraid of hell, or purgatory, or nonexistence. I am not evil. It's a common misconception. I'm not good, either. I just exist, just like you exist. I mean, come on, Greg! I would have thought you knew me better by now, after all, you see me every day! I'm there, in the eyes of every corpse you secretly look into before Dr. Robbins closes their eyes which will never open again. What do you see in there?"

Greg blinked. "Nothing…" he said. "I see… I see nothing."

"People are afraid of me because they think I'm some big mystery," Death said. "They think that they can somehow avoid me but they know in the back of their minds that they'll have to face me some day. You like to gamble, Greg? Facing me is the biggest gamble you'll ever take. Do I give you peace? Does your soul continue on? Will people remember you? Did you matter? Is there a heaven, or is life all there is? Do you ascend, or does everything just stop like a broken clock? I guess you'll just have to wait and see." He gestured at his hand. "Are you ready for that coin toss now?"

Not really sure which outcome Greg was hoping for after that speech, he nodded. The Grim Reaper smiled at him mysteriously before he flipped the coin into the air.

Greg watched it hover there as if it were moving in slow motion. But the flip had not been perfect. Death had flipped it a little too far forward and Greg stepped back, afraid to interfere with its outcome. Death reached for it but missed and it fell to the floor on its side and rolled under one of the counters. Greg froze as he heard it continue to roll and then he heard a metallic plunk as it finally came to a stop.

He was instantly on his hands and knees as he reached under the lab counter, groping desperately for the coin. He felt it with the tips of his fingers and tried to get his finger tip on it to pull it out from under the counter. Finally, he got a hold of it and started pulling it out from under the counter.

But before he could even look at it, his world went white, and Greg was suddenly blinded by sharp, invasive light…


	7. Breadcrumbs

_**Author's Note:**_ I have nothing to say at this juncture in the story. Except to once more thank Kegel for the beta, and you lovely and wonderful reviewers for your kind words and insight.

* * *

_The Present._

He blinked a few times before he even realized his eyes were open. For a brief moment, he held his breath. Was he alive? Was he dead? Did the coin land heads or tails?

And then he noticed the musical jamboree that was blasting away at his eardrums. It was a concoction of harsh, utterly unrecognizable noise. He picked up some heavy metal, and one of his favorite Marilyn Manson song, but he couldn't focus on just one thing. On top of the music was a high pitched whine, and screeches, as well as what sounded like snow from a television set and general static. And all of it was loud and blaring.

He was dead. And he was in hell.

And then, his eyes began to focus in the light as his pupils shrank and he made out a dark shadow sitting in a chair in front of him. It took him a moment to recognize him as the man he knew as Chuck. It was worse than hell. He must still be alive. He was sitting in a chair as well, although unlike Chuck he was bound to his seat.

"You're awake," Chuck observed.

Greg was too tired and almost too disappointed to retort. He looked away. The white noise clattered in his ears. His chest ached and his mouth was parched. His nose felt funny, as if a gallon of water had entered it and was sloshing around in his brain now. His head continued to throb and his heart, despite everything it had been through, continued in its steady rhythm. He guessed he had almost drowned and they'd revived him. For the first time since arriving there, he actually wished they hadn't. He closed his eyes to hold back the tears, but it didn't work. He quietly sobbed. Maybe they'd finally broken him.

And then, Chuck did something that lit the old fire in Greg's belly. He laughed. And Greg looked up at him, blinking the tears out of his eyes, to see a man much larger, and much more powerful than himself… making him feel insignificant. And he remembered, verbatim, what his father said seventeen years ago. _Don't let any of those goddamn bastards keep you down. At least, not for long._ "What are you laughing at?" he whispered, though he doubted Chuck could hear it above the noise.

Chuck just grinned at him evilly. "Poor little man," he said. "All alone and in pain, not a friend in the world. Wanna tell me your name again, you stupid piece of shit?"

Greg stared at him for a long time and Chuck's smile remained in place. "I can't hear you," he lied. "The music is too loud."

Chuck laughed again and held up his hand as a sign to some invisible observer. Greg sighed as quietly as he could. It really is true what the librarians say. Silence really is golden. His ears thanked him for the reprieve as they drank in all of the beautiful quiet that filled the room and he slowly smiled. He was almost averse to talking to Chuck and breaking this glorious phenomenon, but not quite.

"I said," Chuck began sinisterly, "What is your _name_ you dumb fuck?"

"I can tell you one thing," Greg replied in whisper. "It's not dumb fuck. I think you have me confused with your mother."

Chuck didn't like that. He hit Greg hard across the face, but not as hard as the Rat used to hit surprisingly. It didn't draw any blood at least. Greg wondered if he had any blood left to bleed. Still, it did hurt, and didn't help his migraine. "I asked for your _name_, funnyman," Chuck sneered. "Not some smartass remark."

Greg nodded. He knew what Chuck wanted. Chuck wanted him to admit defeat. But he had won that coin toss against Death, and whether there was a reason for it or it was just dumb luck, Greg couldn't let that victory slide. Not yet. "Sanders. Greg Sanders," Greg said quietly.

Chuck was obviously irked as he jumped to his feet and glowered at Greg. "I hope you had a nice nap," he said. "Because it's the last one you'll have in a very long time." He raised his hand and the noise began anew.

As he walked towards the door and the lights continued to shine in his eyes and the music continued to play, Greg wished there was someway he could hit himself on the head and knock himself unconscious. Because sleep deprivation was hardly any fun when he knowingly did it to himself. He couldn't imagine, but would soon discover, what it was like when he didn't have the option to stop.

* * *

_July 4, 1990_

He sat on the porch and watched the neighbor kids across the street play with black cats and firecrackers, chasing each other with sparklers. Of course, his mother never let them have fireworks. She thought they were too dangerous. And she didn't even let Greg play with the neighbor kids. She'd heard of so many accidents with sparklers… Greg knew she meant well, but sometimes her over-protectiveness ruined his social life.

He heard the door close behind him and looked at her over his shoulder. She was cleaning her hands off on her apron, the perfect portrait of a loving mother with her hair back in two short pigtails and her red paisley shirt and blue jeans. She grinned at him, but her eyes were tired, and Greg felt the sudden urge to reassure her.

"You look great today, Mom," he said and she beamed, the smile finally reaching her eyes.

"I made pie," she said. "Cherry à la mode, just how you like it. And later tonight, if you want, Wesley said he'd take us to the river."

Greg made a face. "I'd rather stay here and watch the neighbors' fireworks if that's cool with you and him."

Her smile faded, but she nodded in understanding. She sat down next to him on the porch and watched the neighbors with him before sighing. "I know you don't like him, Greg, but he's mighty fond of you, you know. And he was a good friend of your father's…"

"It just doesn't feel _right_, Mom!" Greg suddenly burst out. "I mean… Dad's been gone for _two months_ and you just _jump_ on this guy like…" But he trailed off as he looked over at his mother, who was staring at her apron and nervously straightening it out. "Aw, Mom, I'm sorry… but…"

"You're right," she whispered, a tear glistening in her eye. "Greg, I… I loved your father so much, but it feels like we've just been going through this agonizingly long break up and in a way, I… I need this, Greg. I need to try and move on. But you're right. You're right, and I feel it every time I'm with him. No matter all the things your father put me through, Greg, I just… It feels like I'm betraying him. If he is still alive. No matter what he did to me, I just can't… I can't do anything to hurt him." She looked up at Greg. "I mean, he's still my husband, through it all. And no matter how I try, I just can't stop loving him…"

Greg looked down. "He loved you too, Mom," he said. "He loved you a lot. He just… He told me once that he'd made the wrong choices in life. That he put other things in front of the people he loved most in the world. You and me."

His mother smiled at him and put her arm around her son. He leaned his head on her shoulder as the sun set and the first couple fire works were going off. "Oh, Greg. I don't know what I'd ever do without you."

"You'd manage," Greg said. "Though admittedly, not very well."

She laughed and Greg was glad to hear it. They were quiet a moment before she spoke again. "Papa Olaf called. He and Nana are going to come over next weekend to… help me sort through some of your father's things. I mean, he has so much clutter in his closet, and I… I just can't touch it, not on my own. I could never invade his privacy. He was always so particular about that…"

"What are you going to do with his things?" Greg asked.

"Well," she said. "I think… I'm going to keep most of it, maybe put it aside for when he comes home again. And some of it I'll put in the attic. And some of it I might sell in a garage sale, but you know, only the really old stuff, nothing important. And some of it, I'll give to you."

Greg looked up at her. "To me?"

"He was your father, Greg," she said. "I'm sure there are a few things he wanted you to have."

Greg smiled at the thought and leaned his head on her shoulder again. "Yeah…"

"And who knows…" she said musingly. "Maybe we'll find something that will give us a hint as to where he's gone to."

"Maybe…" Greg agreed. But he doubted it.

* * *

_Seventeen years later…_

He'd reached his apartment in one piece, though he had the eerie sense that he was being watched. By who, Greg couldn't tell you, but every time he looked over his shoulder, he felt that some demon had just retreated into the shadows. Still, he convinced himself that it was all in his head. Who would be following him anyway?

Regardless, he still double-locked his door before making his way to his phone, checking briefly and uninterestedly to see if he had any messages before lifting up the receiver and dialing.

It rang a total of four times. Greg counted every ring. "Hello, Olivia Sanders speaking."

He smiled at her formal telephone manners. She always was old fashioned. "Mom, it's me," he said.

He could hear the grin in her voice. He loved calling her because he knew she loved hearing from him. Except for today. "Greg, I'm so glad you called, someone was just asking about you."

"Really?" Greg said, suddenly wondering if his feelings about being watched were warranted after all. "Who?"

"Oh, you remember Wesley," his mother said. "He came over today and asked me to make him some of that cherry pie he loves so much. We talked for hours, some about your father, some about you… He was curious as to what you were doing these days, so I told him that you were working for the Las Vegas Crime Lab and how you were helping solve cases by processing DNA—"

"About that, Mom…" Greg said. "Remember… a while ago, I called you and told you there'd been an accident?"

His mother hesitated. "You said you were attacked…" she said. "Out… Outside of work, you said you were… helping someone. You said you saved his life."

Greg nodded. "Well, it… It wasn't outside of work. It was when I was still on duty. I was on my way to a crime scene…"

"Greg, what would they need a lab technician at a crime scene for?" His mother was laughing, but he knew she was slowly figuring it out.

"Mom, I'm a CSI now, I do field work," Greg said quickly. "But we can talk about that later, OK? I need to ask you something about… about Dad."

"Greg, how long has this been going on?" his mother asked, sounding aghast. "I mean… you've been a CSI all this time and decided to just not _tell_ me?"

"Mom," Greg said sharply. "I want to talk about this later, I need to ask you something about Dad."

"Why did you tell me this now?" his mother persisted. "Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

"Mother," Greg said, getting irritated. "I wouldn't even have told you now if I didn't have to, but it would be too difficult to explain my questions otherwise. Listen, I'm working on a case right now, OK? They… We found Dad."

Finally, there was silence on the other end of the line as he heard his mother hold her breath. He waited for her to react, to say something, but she remained silent.

He continued. "He was pulled out of Lake Mead… Now, I don't know what he was _doing_ in Lake Mead anymore than you do. I didn't even know he'd ever been to Vegas."

"He went at least once a month…" his mother whispered finally. "He would send me… postcards and such. I always thought his mistress lived there and he was visiting her…" She choked back a sob. "I knew he was dead, but I always hoped… Oh my God…"

Greg knew her emotions because he mimicked them exactly. "It'll be OK, Mom," he promised her. "I just need to know a few things. What did you know about Dad's job?"

"N-nothing," she stuttered. "He wouldn't tell me anything about it. He always said it would bore me, or he wasn't allowed to discuss it—"

"Mom, but what did he _do_?" Greg interrupted. "Who did he work for? I mean, you were married to him for twenty-one years before he disappeared, you had to know _something_ for Christ's sake!"

"Don't you take that tone with me, Gregory!" his mother snapped.

Greg sighed, exasperated, but he had to smile. No matter what, she was still his mother, and she would always treat him like a child. "OK, I'm sorry, but seriously… Do you even know the _name_ of the company he worked for?"

She didn't speak for a long time, and when she did, her voice was sharp and to the point. "Before your father and I got married, he told me there were things about his life that he couldn't share with me. He asked me if I could still marry him, knowing that I could never fully know everything there was to know about him. I was just a girl at the time, so I thought it was exciting and mysterious and said of course! Well, I shouldn't have been so impetuous, but what did I know? If you want to know anything about your father, you should call Wesley up, he was a childhood friend of his, maybe he could help you—"

"I don't _want_ to talk to _Wesley_, Mom, I want to talk to _you_!" Greg exclaimed. "Didn't you ever nose around a little, maybe ask him a question when he was drunk, weren't you ever _curious_?"

He could hear his mother pursing her lips even over the phone. "I never asked him questions about his work. It was part of the deal. But we met at a Halloween party in '64 and I'll never forget one of the first things he ever said to me… I was dressed as a cat, you see, and he was dressed as Dracula, and I was wearing a mask. I told him that his face looked arrogant, and he told me that I looked sassy in my mask. And I said, 'Well, at least mine is a mask, and I can take it off any time I want,' and he replied, 'And how do you know I'm not wearing a mask?' It was a joke, but… He never showed me his real face. I always knew there was a whole other person beyond the façade he showed me. I wasn't an idiot, Greg. I knew that he was into some very shady things. In my heart, I guess I always knew that it wasn't another woman, but I didn't want to believe that he loved his work—an inanimate object— more than he loved me. Another woman was just so much easier to deal with…"

"Mom, he wasn't into anything shady," Greg said. "He worked for the government. Some top secret branch, CIA or something else entirely, I don't know. The point is, they found out we have his body and they came to Vegas and completely took over the case."

"Well…" his mother said slowly. "If they want to take it over Greg, then you let them. I don't want you getting involved in this, you could hurt yourself. Just like the last time… Are you _sure_ your talents aren't better suited in the lab? Your tenth grade biology teacher always said—"

"I'm not going back to the lab, Mom," Greg said. "And I'm not going to let the goddamn government, the same goddamn government that killed Dad, just sweep another murder under the rug. They won't tell me _anything _about the investigation they run, if they even run one at all. If I want to know what happened to Dad, I have to run my own fucking investigation."

"Gregory!" his mother said warningly. "Firstly, don't use that kind of language, that was your father's language, and I don't want to hear you saying those words. And secondly, you stay put, do you understand me? Don't make me fly out all the way to Las Vegas just so I can ground you!"

"I'm not twelve-years-old anymore, Mom, I can take care of myself," Greg yelled into the phone. "And just so you know, I've been a CSI for _years_ now, and I've put _dozens_ of crooks behind bars, and I'm _good_ at it, Mom. I'm _damn_ good, and I will use whatever language I feel fits the moment. Now I'm sorry to have upset you, but I have to _go_."

"Gregory Anthony Hojem Sanders, if you hang up this phone, I promise you I'll—"

But what she was promising him, Greg never found out as he slammed the phone down. He stared at it for a moment angrily, as though daring her to call back, but the phone remained silent. It was then and only then that he noticed he had a voice message as the little red light blinked on and off. It hadn't been there before he called his mother, so the call had to have come in while he was on the phone with her. Curious, he pressed play. The phone number was restricted, according to the machine, but the message was clear.

"I can tell you something about your father. Meet me as soon as possible at Jean Luc's Pet Clinic a little ways outside of town. Come alone, and tell no one, especially not those government suits."

Greg knew that all B-rated private eye movies started out this way. _Come alone. Tell no one._ A smart person would have ignored both of those orders. But unfortunately, all the people he could tell would keep him from going. He knew Grissom would lock him up in order to make sure he didn't go, and wild horses wouldn't keep him from this meeting. If he asked Sara or Nick to come along, they would just ask too many questions. If he asked Warrick or Catherine, they'd think he was up to something and want to tell Grissom. He had to go alone. There was no other option.

Still, he wasn't a complete idiot. He had to leave something behind, a hint to where he was headed. So he scribbled a note to his fictional roommate on a Post-It by the phone. He had to be discreet, so as not to alert the government agents, but he wanted his friends to recognize something was wrong if something indeed went wrong. He had to give them a trail. Breadcrumbs. Something to follow if it all went to hell in a hand basket. He thought for a long time about his wording.

_Poncho— Went to Jean Luc's Pet Clinic to pick up the dog. Vet said he should be back to full health by tomorrow morning. If he isn't, go back to the center and ask the vet what's wrong. Tell Sunshine _ _Woodstock__ happened in 1969, not 1964, so I win the bet and get to keep the ring. Don't forget to do the dishes and please, _please_ would you just take out the garbage already? Greg._

He looked at the note for a long time, hoping his friends were bright enough to decipher his code. But then he reminded himself, they were CSIs. Of course they'd figure it out. If they had to figure anything out. He was fully intending on returning from this mysterious rendezvous. Still, it never hurt to be prepared. His Dad had taught him that.

And now, for the _pièce de résistance_. He walked into his kitchen and lifted the lid on his trash can. In it, he put a picture of himself with his father when he was very young. He put a newspaper over it before closing the lid. And with that, he grabbed his coat and left his apartment.


	8. Intoxication

_**Author's Note:**_ If you're squeamish about cockroaches like I am, you may want to skip that part... I find it amusing that grotesque torture barely fazes me, and yet show me a cockroach and I will scream so bloody loud... I think I need therapy. Thank you all for reviewing, you're fantastic. Reviews in my mailbox always make me smile. I love writing mysteries because people always guess what's going on and I LOVE seeing people's theories. Sometimes they even give me ideas. Sometimes they're so off base, it shows fantastic imagination. And sometimes, they hit the nail on the head, and I think to myself, 'My God, am I that obvious?' Keep reviewing, you spur me to update and write faster, and I love your beautiful opinions. And don't be afraid to criticize me either, we all learn and grow. :o) And those of you who watched and liked my "Night Bleeds" promo video-- I'm glad. Thanks for commenting on that too. I'm new to the fan video territory, so you know how that is. Once more, Kegel gets props for the beta. Also, I promise that in two chapters, you'll pretty much get all the answers to the questions you've all been asking.

_**EDIT:**_ BAD Carly! I forgot to include a crucial scene to the end of this chapter. I was going to just include it in the next chapter as well, but I purposefully wanted to END on THIS NOTE. So if you've already read this chapter, please zip to the end and read the last scene. Thanks._  
_

* * *

_The Present._

The noise consumed him. Greg was rapidly losing his mind. He closed his eyes on several occasions but found that he couldn't block out the sound. On top of that, he noted the chair he was tied to wasn't comfortable at all, and never let him stay in one position very long. There were sharp razor blades sticking into him at odd angles on the back of the chair, so he couldn't lean back on it comfortably. The seat was short and sloping downward, so he kept slipping. He wondered when exhaustion would take over and he'd pass out. He had begun to hallucinate again. Death was standing in the corner of the room, flipping his faithful silver dollar. Upon noticing that Greg had seen him, he sauntered on over and crouched in front of the tortured soul he had come to claim.

"So how does it feel?" the Grim Reaper asked almost mockingly.

Greg took deep, exhausted breaths. "I shouldn't have won that coin toss."

"You didn't," Death informed him. "The coin came up heads."

"Then how am I still alive?" Greg asked accusingly, not believing him even a little bit.

"The terms of the bet," Death replied. "You said that if I win, you would be mine, mind body and soul, those were your words. In other words, your life is in _my hands_. It's always been in my hands, Greg. Nothing's changed."

"My life is in _my_ hands," Greg snapped. "No one else's."

Death smiled enigmatically. "You die when it's your time, Greg. You have no control over that."

"I do," he said. "I want to die now."

"Already?" Death sounded surprised. "But you're so _close_. Come on, Greg. I was generous, I gave you what you wanted. You're not going to give up on me so easily, are you?"

"Give up on _you_?" Greg almost laughed. "I'm asking you to help me out here, man. Put this poor kid out of his misery, would you?"

But the Grim Reaper was shaking his head. "You're not ready to take that gamble, Greg. Stick to the small bets. The big ones will do you in."

"I must really be going crazy," Greg said, rolling his head back on his shoulders. "I'm so crazy, I have the Grim Reaper telling me I can't die yet. What the fuck is the matter with you? Your job is to _take_ souls, not _torture_ them."

"Greg, I won that coin toss," Death told him. "But that doesn't mean that you lost. You can only cheat me on so many occasions. It all comes down to me in the end, no matter who you are, whether you're Greg Sanders or the man torturing Greg Sanders. What are some of the things you would like to do to Chuck and the Rat if you ever had your chance? What is this thing that having it, you can no longer give it away, but by lacking it, for the moment at least, you can give it to those who've wronged you?"

Greg's chest quivered with silent, hysterical laughter. "Aw, Jesus, do you always talk in riddles?"

"Death," the Grim Reaper said. "It's always Death, Greg. Remember that."

"I'm having trouble remembering anything…" he whispered, his eyes rolling up to the back of his head. He was so _tired_. His eyes hurt and his lids were heavy. His brain was screaming at him, his migraine more intense than ever before. His limbs felt heavy and sore. And his stomach was tying itself in knots trying to find something to eat.

And then, a friendly cockroach crawled across his shoulder. Greg almost smiled. In his eyes, it looked like the most beautiful meal he'd seen in a good long while. The body was juicy. The legs were crunchy. All in all, it was just like his Mom's cooking. When she was having an off day, anyway. And he was so hungry, he would literally eat anything. His stomach only encouraged him as his eyes made him believe it was a walking roasted chicken. As it radiated succulence, Greg forgot what it had originally been before his half-crazed mind had morphed it into something delicious.

Unable to suffer through his hunger for another second, Greg leant his head over and opened his mouth, biting down hard on the food that had unknowingly crawled right into his trap. He tossed his head back like a bird swallowing a fish to make sure it fell into his mouth before biting down again, hearing that satisfying crunch and a frantic scurrying inside his mouth. He chewed fast and swallowed swiftly, desperate to satiate his hunger and get the foul metallic taste of slime and grime out of his mouth. When it slipped and scrambled down his gullet, his mind decided it was time to drop the illusion, and it was only then that Greg realized the full extent of what he had done.

Suddenly very nauseous, it was all he could do not to vomit up the sacrifice he had just made to help him stay alive. But he did begin spitting fervently, utterly disgusted at the gross and utterly nauseating deed he had just performed for survival's sake.

"That was brave," Death commented, with an impressed look on his face.

Greg had forgotten he was there. He narrowed his eyes at the Grim Reaper. "Either kill me or leave me alone. I'm tired of speaking with you."

And disappear he did when the door in the far end of the room burst open and the white noise instantly stopped. For a moment, Greg expected to see Chuck or the Rat, here to release him of this torture only to throw him into another one but his eyes widened and his heart leapt into this throat at what he saw.

"Greg!"

Greg was so overwhelmed with joy at the site of his old supervisor that it brought him to tears which spilt over his tired eyes. "Grissom!"

He held a gun, which he holstered upon seeing Greg in the middle of the room and ran to him instantly, leaving the door wide open. Grissom looked at Greg's face and smiled, laughing lightly with relief as he shook his head. "How you've survived for so long, I'll never know…"

Greg began laughing himself. "Get me out of here, Grissom," he wheezed. "Get me out of here _now_."

But to his utter surprise and disappointment, Grissom's smile faded and he shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't do that, Greg."

His heart fell back into the pit of his stomach and was devoured by the acids. "What…?"

"You got yourself into this," Grissom said. "You're going to have to get yourself out."

"But…" But even as he said it, when Greg looked at the door it was closed. He looked back at where Grissom was and saw that he was gone. He was suddenly very cold, and his tears of joy turned into desperate waves of frustration as he sobbed.

* * *

_Earlier…_

The pet clinic wasn't that far outside of town, although he did find it odd that it was one amongst a spattering of buildings before Las Vegas met the Nevada Desert. Greg got out of his car and looked at the empty parking lot. He found it strange that his was the only car in the lot, then reminded himself that it was four in the morning. He didn't expect the pet center to be even open, and yet it was. A sign advertised _Jean Luc's 24-Hour Pet Clinic_.

_Only in Vegas…_ Greg thought as he made his way to the door and entered. There was a petite brunette behind the reception desk looking exhausted as she played solitaire. She glanced up at him fleetingly but did a double take and kicked the swivel chair out from under her as she jumped to her feet.

"Are you Greg Sanders?" she asked. "We don't get many people in here at this hour. You have to be him, right?"

"You're expecting me…" Greg said slowly.

She nodded. "My boss said you'd be coming. I'm supposed to take you back where the dogs are."

"Who is your boss?" Greg asked as she came out from behind the reception desk.

She smiled warmly at him but shrugged. "He said I couldn't tell you that yet, but that you'd know him if you saw him." She walked over to a door marked 'Employees Only.' "You coming?"

Greg looked skeptical but shrugged it off. He had come this far, after all. She led him down a white-washed hall that looked quite pristine, as well it should for an animal hospital, and then finally opened the door to an office that said Dr. White on the frosted glass window. The receptionist led him to a chair in front of the desk and asked him to take a seat. She walked over to a credenza and opened the cabinet doors to reveal a bottle of port. She uncorked the bottle.

"Oh, no thank you, I'm not thirsty," Greg tried to tell her.

She looked at him over her shoulder and smiled warmly at him. "No, this is compliments of my boss, he insists."

"And does Dr. White offer port to all his guests or am I just special?" Greg asked, feeling sly.

But to his surprise, she laughed. "Dr. White retired years ago. My boss just hasn't had the time to change the name on the door. Don't get any ideas, hotshot."

But Greg already had some ideas as he watched her skirt hike up just a little bit as she reached on her tip toes for the wine glasses on a shelf above the credenza. He smiled fondly to himself, then closed his eyes and scolded himself. He was here about his father, not to flirt with cute receptionists.

Nevertheless… "What's your name anyway, beautiful?" Greg inquired innocently. "I saw you weren't wearing a nametag."

She fell back on her heals, a glass in hand, and turned around, raising the wine glass playfully at him in a mock toast. "I can't tell you that either."

"Oh, now you're just being a tease," Greg said, leaning back in his chair. He felt strangely comfortable in this room and he wasn't sure why. He detected a strange odor coming from… somewhere. Was it her perfume? Was it incense? Whatever it was, it definitely soothed his nerves.

The receptionist poured the wine and sauntered over to Greg, making a point to wiggle her hips. So she _was_ flirting with him. She handed him the wine glass and gave him a polite nod of her head. "Go ahead. My boss will be right with you. I'll be outside if you need anything."

"Hey, beautiful," Greg called at her retreating back. "Is there anything you _can_ tell me?"

She paused in the doorway and looked at him coyly over her shoulder. "Only that the wine you're about to taste is the best I've ever had."

Greg chortled as he raised the glass to his lips. "Well," he said smugly over the rim of the glass. "You've never had _me_, now, have you?"

She said nothing, but he saw her grin as she left the room and closed the door.

The second she was gone, Greg lowered the glass from his lips, his smile fading slightly as he looked at the swirling red liquid. He sniffed it momentarily, but could smell nothing beyond the soft hint of alcohol and the sweet, succulent aroma the desert wine was known for. But by now, that strange, sickly sweet scent had already invaded his nostrils and corrupted any unbiased smelling of the wine. If it was laced with anything, Greg would never know, and he'd rather not find out.

He stood up, and possibly a little too quickly as he was suddenly light-headed. He grabbed onto the desk in front of him in order to steady himself, spilling the port a little bit. It stained the white carpet, but Greg didn't worry about that. He laughed lightly at the strange feeling that was encompassing him, sending tingling tendrils of warmth out through his body, which was quickly beginning to feel like Jello. He laughed again, then his hand suddenly flew up to his mouth to stop himself, his brow furrowing in concern. What was he _doing_?

He straightened and tried to keep his mouth straight as he walked over to a plant by the window and poured the port out a little sloppily. He jumped at the sound of someone's voice.

"So you think I'd be so obvious as to drug the wine, did you?"

He immediately spun on his heal and lost his balance. The wine glass fell to the floor and shattered. He staggered into the wall and grabbed onto the ficus he had just watered to try and keep from falling. The result was an interesting tango which turned into a brawl between Greg and the plant which ended with the small tree on the floor, the red wine and soil dripping from its pot, further staining the carpet.

Greg didn't know why, but he found this highly amusing and started laughing again and found himself doubled over in fits of giggles, his mind soaring on some celestial highway far out in space.

"What's… going on?" he wheezed, but still had the image of the plant falling to the floor replaying in his mind as the room began to blur. He looked up to see a figure striding toward him. He was tall and thin with sharp features and graying black hair… But beyond that, Greg couldn't make out his face.

"Hello, Greg," he said softly. "Have you been to the dentist recently?"

Greg found this query even funnier than the plant fight, and chuckled before forcing himself to sober up as he straightened and shook his head. "What do you…" But then he vaguely noticed that the man he was speaking to wore something around his mouth… a mask.

Something was trying to connect in his brain, but the ideas just kept running into each other and refused to fit together. He knew he should have recognized something very important, but his brain decided it didn't want to think at that moment in time. He'd much rather laugh at plants and silly things strange men in masks say.

Someone grabbed his arm, and Greg felt as if he should care, but he didn't. In fact, he couldn't even feel them touching him. He imagined he wasn't even part of his body, and his eyes widened with this new philosophical quandary.

"We felt that this was the best way to keep you docile…" the strange man was saying as he led Greg over to a chair. He snapped his fingers and Greg heard footsteps but couldn't make out exactly what was going on. He forced Greg to sit down in the chair and Greg saw people at his feet, untying his shoes…

"Hey…" Greg muttered. "They look like circus monkeys. Have you ever been to the circus? I love the circus."

They pulled off his shoes and socks before one of them began unbuttoning his shirt.

"Wait…" Greg said, his brow furrowing as he feebly held up his hands. "I don't know what you guys are into, but I don't exactly swing that way, OK? At least not on the first date." He snickered.

Somewhere, the strange man sighed. "You sure have grown since I saw you last," he said.

"You look like a jelly bean," Greg said with a grin. He felt someone push him forward as they forced his arms out of his shirt. Greg felt somehow liberated by it and let out a whoop. And then, they unbuttoned his jeans. He should have been nervous, he should have been angry, he should have _done something_, but he was too high to care. They ripped them off his legs and then reached for his boxers, pulling them down as well. They pulled him to his feet and he stumbled, his head beginning to throb dully, the first stages of what would prove to be a very intense and infinitely long migraine.

And then, all of a sudden, the ideas that had been bumping together in Greg's head suddenly had a huge head-on collision and connected and he finally remembered a time when he was younger when he had felt this way before.

The dentist. Wisdom teeth. Nitrous oxide. It hadn't been in the wine after all. It had been in the air all along. That was why he was wearing a mask. He didn't want to breathe in whatever residue of the gas was left in the room.

Oddly enough, whereas this should have alarmed Greg, it only gave him a strange sense of understanding. Now that he had figured out the problem, he was immensely pleased with himself. He could not stop grinning.

"Take him downstairs," the strange man ordered. "Let me know when the gas wears off. We can begin our treatment then."

They pushed Greg towards the door and he could do nothing but follow them. He found it strange how he couldn't feel his feet, and yet he felt a strange tingling sensation all over his body. His head felt like it was filled with air and would float off his head at any moment.

When whoever was escorting him kicked open a door, the receptionist Greg had seen earlier jumped back in surprise and stared at Greg with wide brown eyes which darted down, then up again before her lips twitched and her fingers flew to her mouth as though to stifle a giggle.

Greg winked at her before they pulled him down the hall and to a flight of stairs. He looked back at her and held his hand to his ear like a phone. "Call me!"

She pursed her lips, trying hard not to laugh as she nodded. "Sure thing, hotshot!"

And then the door to the stairwell closed and Greg was plunged into a darkness he would learn to call his home.

* * *

_The Present._

The door opened and so did Greg's eyes. He hadn't been sleeping, but he found that it was impossible to keep his eyes open for too long and had long ago stopped trying. He had gotten so used to the music it droned in his ears, but the periodic loud spikes would still jolt him out of whatever half-sleep he had fallen into. Even his uncomfortable chair had somehow softened its features. It was no feather bed, but Greg had maneuvered himself into a relatively comfortable position.

He recognized the man as the Rat, with his graying black hair and pinstriped suit. He strode over to Greg and kneeled down in front of him, looking at him with tiny black eyes.

"Greg?" he asked, as though checking to see if Greg was still alive.

Greg wasn't sure he could answer him. He blinked at the man and didn't show any sign that he had heard him. The Rat looked over his shoulder and held up a hand. The noise stopped. Greg closed his eyes. A faint smile tugged at his lips as his chin fell to his chest.

The Rat rose to his feet without another word and walked behind Greg, releasing him from his bonds. Greg was so weak he fell off the chair onto the floor. It was cold under his skin. He relished it and closed his eyes. He fell asleep almost instantly, but it wasn't for long as the Rat kicked him in the stomach, jolting him out of his exhausted collapse. Greg's eyes rolled in their sockets to look up at the man who was looking down at him with an inscrutable gaze.

"Get up."

The order was simple, but Greg refused to obey. After that demonic chair, the floor was the most comfortable place in the world. He closed his eyes again…

He winced as the Rat grabbed him by the hair, forcing his head off the ground. "When I tell you to do something, you know by now I don't ask twice." He grabbed Greg's arm and pulled him to his feet. He swayed there for a moment, his muscles aching and tired, his eyelids sore. The Rat put his hands on either shoulder and tried to get Greg to look at him.

"Greg," he said again.

Greg's head fell backwards. He couldn't hold it up. He was so tired…

"I can see talking to you now won't do any good," the Rat said, his voice weaving in and out of audibility. Greg was falling asleep on his feet. "But we will talk. I promised you I'd tell you about your father. And I will."

He took Greg's hand and pressed something into it. Greg reflexively clutched it, but didn't know what he held.

"You've done… admirably well this far, Greg," the Rat whispered. "You've gone on longer than… anyone I've ever seen. And that includes your father."

Greg knew his words held significance. But wakefulness was not his forte at the moment as his attention span got shorter by the second. The next thing he knew, the Rat was taking him out of the room and down a long hallway, back to his familiar gray cell where he would be lost to the night again, and finally get some sleep.

The second he could, he was on his knees, and then his side, and was asleep before he even hit the ground. It was only after he had sunk into a deep and dreamless sleep that some tiny bell went off in the back of Greg's mind.

The Rat hadn't demanded to know his name.

* * *

_**End Note:**_ Ah, I loved my dentist when he gave me nitrous oxide. Best dentist appointment of my life. 


	9. Electric

_**Author's Note:**_ I'm so excited! I went on a writing spree at midnight and just couldn't stop. So out of my excitement, I'm giving you this chapter now because I'm two chapters ahead already. It's all falling into place. Once more, thanks to Kegel for the beta (you're awesome). The next two chapters is when you'll get all of the answers, I _promise._ Hopefully, they're satisfactory and to your liking. Anyways, enjoy chapter nine. Also, if you read the last chapter without the final scene (it was updated three hours after it was originally posted) then I suggest you go read that last scene, else you may be confused. :o) Thanks for reading, and your reviews are so bloody awesome, you guys rock better than the Cure.

* * *

_Earlier…_

The first time Greg had seen the Rat and christened him thus was after an intensely long period of solitary confinement with naught but his own memories to keep him company. The food, when it came, was slid under the door and was the only sign that they were paying any attention to him at all. He had been on the verge of going insane, repeating the lyrics to his favorite Pearl Jam songs, when the door to his cell opened and he squinted at the light.

His silhouette fell on Greg like the night stretching its fingers over the horizon. His figure was lean, and he had a pointed nose and beady eyes which immediately reminded Greg of a rat. The Rat had come in followed by his two shapeless, faceless goons and dunked Greg's head face first in water, making him sputter. He had allowed his two goons to kick him and beat him, but not enough to break anything or made him bleed badly. He returned every so often to repeat the treatment, never once saying a word to Greg. Until once, after another period of isolation, he returned. After ordering him to drink, to which Greg only blinked at him, his thugs once more dunked his head into the water. And then, the Rat had asked Greg his name.

"Gr… Gre… Greg Sa… Sa… Greg Sa… Sa…"

"Sa… Sa… Spit it out, boy, we don't have all day."

But there was something about the Rat that Greg didn't know, and that was that the Rat had been the voice who had spoken to him in the main office. And he was much more than that.

"Greg Sanders."

Greg Sanders indeed, the son of the late great Mark Sanders, an old but betrayed ally of the once great man who stood before Greg now. He looked down on the boy, who was gaunt and sickly, and yet in the back of his mind, the Rat knew he should in fact be looking up to the boy. But he had spent forty years learning how to separate himself from his work. And if his supervisors told him to treat Greg like something less than human, than he would tell himself he _was_ less than human. Whatever it takes to get the job done. Mark had taught him that.

The Rat was satisfied as he sneered at the boy. He ordered his goons to prepare the next step in the experiment before turning around and walking to the door.

Greg's voice caught him off guard and what was left of his heart fluttered. He sounded just like Mark did, when he was begging for his life.

"Wait! Wha… Why don't… When are you going to… to kill me?"

The Rat paused, his lips set in a firm line before a smile distorted his thin, rodent-like features. Still, he didn't turn to face his prey. He feared he may see Mark in his eyes. "When you can no longer remember your own name," he said. And then, he was gone.

* * *

_The Present._

Greg was awoken from his comatose slumber when someone quite literally broke down the door. Chuck marched in, making the floor shake with his heavy combat boots. He stood over Greg and kicked him.

"Get up, maggot," he sneered. "_Now_."

By now, Greg was docile enough to comply with any order they gave him and he scrambled to his feet. He regretted it almost instantaneously as Chuck threw him up against the wall.

"You think you've gotten to him, eh?" Chuck asked. "You think that just because you got him to let you go you could just lie there like a log and _sleep_? Son of a bitch, he should never have taken you out of that goddamn room… Well you don't have all of us wrapped around your little finger, do you understand me?!"

Chuck threw Greg over to his goons who caught him, one on either arm. They never said a word, and Greg looked at them each now for the first time seeing them as people instead of objects. He was surprised to see that they were kids, no older than eighteen years of age. Their faces were blank, but their eyes glistened with a thirst for… something. They definitely respected Chuck, that was for sure, and Greg realized they never looked directly at him. He wondered if he could change that.

"Hey," he said to one of the kids holding him. "What's your name, kid? What are you doing here, torturing poor old folks like me?"

One of the kids glanced at him briefly but quickly looked away again, looking almost horrified that he had done so as if it were a sin. But in that brief moment, Greg recognized him from somewhere… It took him a moment to place it, but finally he did.

The kid had been one of the suits at the lab when he had spoken to Daniel Morgan.

But Greg instantly forgot this when Chuck punched him across the face, and glared at the kid Greg had recognized.

"You don't talk to the help, maggot," Chuck hissed at Greg. "And _you_!" he said, turning to the kid. "You get the hell out of here, I only need one of you here for this."

The kid straightened up and nodded at Chuck before quickly fleeing the room. The other kid, the one he left behind, remained completely unreadable to Greg.

"Take him to the spark room," Chuck ordered.

Greg had no idea what that was but he knew he wouldn't like it. But just as they were about to leave, Greg saw something glimmer on the floor of his cell.

His father's wedding band.

He had no idea how it got there, but he had to have it with him. He made a dive for it, breaking away from the one goon that held him and snatching it up off the floor.

"Hey!" Chuck screamed, stepping hard on Greg's back and pushing him to the ground. "You don't get down until I say you get down, you hear?" He looked at his goon. "Pick him up."

The kid nodded and pulled Greg to his feet, but Greg didn't care. He had achieved his prize. He silently slipped his father's ring onto his finger for safe keeping before Chuck and his goon hauled him out down the hall.

They took him to yet another room, and Greg wondered how many torture chambers existed in this underground labyrinth but pushed the thought from his mind. This room had a chair in the middle with the typical bonds on the arms. It looked like…

Greg stopped in his tracks. It was a primitive electric chair. This wasn't a torture session. It was an execution. He was pushed into action again by Chuck, and the kid pulled him in and forced him into the chair.

"No…" Greg whispered. "No, wait! No! I haven't forgotten my name, I'm Greg Sanders, and I don't want to _die_ yet!"

"Quit your _whining_," Chuck said as he pulled the straps to secure his left arm while the kid secured the right. "You won't _die_, the current won't be strong enough. I haven't had enough fun with you yet to let you die. And your little friend won't be here to save you this time."

But Greg still struggled and screamed. He didn't believe Chuck. He never did. "No. _No_, please— _please_ don't kill me! I don't want to die! I'm Greg Sanders!"

"Shut _up_!" Chuck yelled, kneeing him in the stomach. "Or I have half a mind to turn up the current to potentially lethal levels!" He reached into a bucket and took out a sponge, squeezing it over Greg's head, arms and chest before applying electrodes to his body. He didn't touch the helmet that hovered above Greg's head.

This in itself made Greg calm down slightly. The fact that they weren't going to zap him in the brain did bring him some comfort. Still, they attached electrodes to his finger tips and chest and grounded his feet. Greg was breathing hard as he watched Chuck wave an order at the kid, who ran to the wall where a lever was.

"Do it," Chuck ordered, watching Greg with hauntingly hungry eyes. He was excited. He couldn't wait to watch Greg suffer.

The lever was pulled and Greg suddenly had one of the strangest and most frightening experiences in his life. His whole body began to tingle and then he couldn't move even if he'd wanted to and all he kept thinking is _Move, damn you!_ Then his body began to twitch and shake and there was this buzzing in his ears. His teeth began to clatter and his body spasmed. The buzzing roared in his ears and things came in flashes, like someone was turning on and off the lights of the room.

And then, something went wrong.

There was a spark by Greg's hand. It began small, a little blue star exploding into the air, but then as the current got stronger, it became a leaping whip of energy.

"What the…" Chuck began but didn't finish as he stumbled into Greg, grabbing his hand. Greg watched him fall to his knees and begin to shake, his body seizing with the electrically induced spasms as he knocked over the bucket of water by Greg's feet. The machine started to short out and the current coursing through Greg grew weaker. But his teeth were still chattering and Chuck was still jolting. Greg was vaguely aware of the boy who had now run to the wall and shut off the current.

Finally, Chuck let go of Greg's arm and fell onto his hands and knees, breathing heavily. Greg turned his ringing head to look at the boy by the lever. His heart was beating a mile a minute… but he could move.

He was breathing quickly. His muscles throbbed like he had just run ten miles without stretching. He was still shaking and felt as though electricity was still coursing through him.

But it wasn't.

He tasted blood in his mouth and his tongue throbbed dully. He must have bitten it when his jaw had gone wild. He licked his chapped and split lips and stared at the boy who was staring right back at him, his eyes wide in fear.

The boy was standing in the spilt water from the bucket.

So was Chuck.

The feet of the electric chair were made of rubber.

And Greg got an idea.

"Get me out of here!" he said to the kid. "This isn't _safe_ you could _kill_ us all!"

The kid made a move towards Greg, nodding fervently and reached for Greg's bonds when Chuck's strained voice ruined everything.

"Don't you fucking touch him, you little worm!" His words were harsh, but his voice wasn't. It was breathless and shaking and he was still on all fours and didn't look like he had any intention of getting up.

The boy hesitated. He looked at Greg, then at Chuck on the ground.

"I'm a scientist," Greg said. "That cable still has a current. If you don't get me out of here it could short circuit and cause an electrical overload." He hoped to God the kid knew nothing about electricity, because if he did, Greg was screwed. None of the crap he was spouting actually had any factual basis in electrical science, but Greg was hoping to confuse the boy.

Lucky enough for him, the kid ate up the bullshit Greg was feeding him like candy and nodded, swiftly undoing the straps on his arms and feet.

"I said don't _touch_ him!" Chuck said. He sat back on his knees, but was still shaking as he glared at the boy, who like a deer caught in the headlights froze while undoing Greg's last restraint on his left hand.

But his feet and a single hand was all Greg needed anyway. With Chuck distracted by his own pain and the boy too terrified to move without orders, Greg moved as swiftly as his jelly-legs would allow. He brought he knees up onto the chair and twisted in the seat. He wasted no time as he reached behind the chair for the cord that led to the helmet and threw it into the water. The boy suddenly broke his stunned pose, letting go of the arm of the chair as he turned to look at Greg in horror. Their eyes met for a millisecond. Greg almost felt sorry for the kid, who was still a teenager, but not enough to hesitate any longer than he already had. Crouching on the seat of the chair and reaching as far as he could for the wall, he pulled the lever to its highest voltage.

Greg watched both of their bodies go rigid and found that he couldn't take his eyes off of them as their eyes rolled back in their sockets, their whole bodies spasming as their muscles wildly contracted and relaxed. Tongues of electricity leapt out of the kid's bent elbows and dove into the ground, leaving charred exit wounds that reminded Greg of jelly fish welts. Unable to stop watching this atrocious execution, Greg blindly undid his binds on his left hand and jumped up onto the seat of the chair.

Breathing hard, and strangely hoping they weren't yet dead, Greg's trembling hand reached for the lever.

"What are you doing?"

He looked up to see Death leaning in the doorway. Greg ignored the figment of his imagination and pulled the lever. The two seizing bodies froze and then fell to the floor, unmoving.

Death looked disappointed. "Why did you do that?"

"I had to stop it," Greg said. "I couldn't just leave them like that… I have to get out of here… Are they dead?"

Death looked at the fallen bodies inscrutably before turning his dark gaze back to Greg. "Do you think they're dead?"

Greg stammered. "I-I didn't want t-to… _kill_ them…"

"And why not?" Death asked. "They tried to kill you. They did worse then kill you. And they _enjoyed_ doing it. And you're just going to let them live?"

"That's not my place," Greg said. "I don't get to decide who lives and who dies."

"Then you agree with me," Death said with a sly smile. "Your death was never in your hands after all, was it?"

Greg opened his mouth to retort then bit his tongue, annoyed at this phantom of all his insecurities. "I… I'm not saying we _can't_, I'm just saying we _shouldn't_," he said. "People do it every day. Homicide, suicide, genocide, infanticide… all the other 'cides'…"

"Ah," said Death musingly. "But what of the _attempted_ murders? The _attempted _suicides? The people that by all standards _should_ have died but didn't? People like you. The soldier in the trenches who just reloaded his ammo naught twenty seconds ago and yet finds he is out again. And when he bends down to retrieve more ammo, a bullet flies over his head. Do _people_ really decide who lives and who dies, Greg, or is that for someone like _me_ to decide? I have many instruments, even humans themselves can be a means of taking a soul, Greg."

"You're really beginning to piss me off, you know that?" Greg snapped. "I'm glad I'll soon be rid of you."

Death grinned enigmatically like the Cheshire Cat. "Oh Greg," he said. "You will never be rid of me as long as you live."

Greg hopped off of the chair, still being sure to avoid the pool of water that surrounded it. There was no current going through it now, but one could never be too careful. He slowly knelt down next to Chuck's body. His face was against the concrete floor, his cheek resting in the water as he stared out at Greg with glassy eyes.

Greg immediately jumped to his feet and backed away from the body, his heart racing ahead of him at a mile a minute. He had only ever killed one other person before in his life, and it was a deed he had sworn to himself that he would never commit again. And yet, here he was, once again killing for the sake of his own survival.

Trembling, he looked over at the boy, who was also laying flat on his face, but Greg couldn't see his face. With a shaky step, he approached the kid and knelt down on the floor again. He began to reach for his wrist when he stopped. The boy's back was rising up and down and he was shaking ever so slightly. Greg saw the burn marks on his shins which had been on the ground, the exit wounds on his knees where the current left his body and went back into the earth. He was in bad shape, and needed medical attention, but he was alive for now.

That was all Greg needed to know. He rose to his feet, which were still tingling from the electricity and made his way to the door.

"You're just going to leave him there?" Death asked as Greg passed him on his way to the door.

"What else am I going to do?" Greg retorted, irritated. "It's not like I'm just going to call the others in to help him, am I?"

Death watched him for a moment. "Burn it."

Greg was startled by this order. "What?"

"Burn it to the ground," Death said. "You would destroy the evidence and this building all in one go. Kill them all."

But Greg shook his head. "No," he said. "You're crazy." And with that, he opened the door and crept out into the white hallway.

He looked to his left, then to his right. No one was around. There were no signs telling him which direction to go in. So he slowly started walking left, his heartbeat echoing in his ears as he held his breath, his whole body tense. He froze when he heard footsteps and immediately pushed open a nearby door, stumbling in without even checking if it was empty.

The room was dark as he leaned against the door. Like all the other rooms with the exception of the sun room, this one was completely windowless. Greg fumbled for the light switch. When he found it, the room was flooded with buzzing florescent white light. And he gasped.

Gasoline. Coals. Matches. And another wrought iron chair that looked scorched.

"You have the means," Death whispered in Greg's ear, making the man jump.

"Shut up," Greg muttered as he walked into the room and looked around.

"If you weren't considering it, you wouldn't still be here," Death pointed out.

"I'm hiding out," Greg said absently.

"Then you would be by the door, listening for footsteps," Death replied.

Greg ignored him as he lifted a can of gasoline. It would be so easy… And then they could never hurt him again.

He made his decision quickly and didn't dwell on it. He poured out all the matches but one box and gathered the gasoline cans together in the middle of the room. He took one can and one box of matches and poured a line to the door of the room. He listened outside before lighting the match, dropping it, and immediately exiting the room and ran down the hall, dropping the can of gasoline he was carrying.

The explosion was deafening, but was mostly contained within the concrete walls of the room. Greg hid in the shadows around a corner as he saw people run out of other rooms and down the hall towards the source of the expanding fire.

And then, he saw it. His heart leapt into his throat when he saw the stairwell people were pouring down to attend to the fire. Beaming, but still keeping his wits about him, Greg waited for the people to leave before he made his way up the stairs.

He found himself at the end of the hall they had taken him down when he had first arrived here. He saw the door that led to the reception area and the adrenaline really began to rush. He smelled smoke, and heard dogs barking. He paused as he passed the office that still read "Dr. White." He looked down at himself and realized that in the civilized world, they wore clothes. He would need to get his back, or at the very least steal a lab coat or something. So quietly, he turned the knob of the door and stepped inside.

He saw his clothes folded in a neat pile on the chair by the door and smiled. How oddly convenient. He grabbed his boxers and pulled them on, followed by his jeans. He grabbed his shirt, deciding he'd put it on later and grabbed the door handle again.

But he froze at the cool oily voice that sounded behind him, shattering all his hope of escape in milliseconds. "Did you really think it would be that easy?"

* * *

**_Author's Note:_** I love cliffhangers when I have control over them. Also, the story about the soldier in the trenches was an old war story my Grandfather told me about (WWII). IE, it's a true story. Additionally, just a little factoid, I was electrocuted once. Long story short, it's not fun, I don't reccomend it, and the exit wounds are unsightly and look kind of like long animal scratches or whip marks. Yes, so... on that note, it'd be nice to hear your thoughts. I know lots of you read and don't review. You know who you are. How can I know to check out your profile if I don't know you've read my story? ;o) 


	10. The Selfish Traitor

_**Author's Note:**_ I'm an extra chapter ahead today so when I'm two chapters ahead, you get another one. I'm very happy with chapter eleven. I don't have much to say, except that PisceanPal23 said to see the new HP movie because it's awesome. And I'm telling you to see it in IMAX because that makes it even more awesome. And that's all for today, enjoy the chapter. Although this chapter and the next cover the same sort of thing, really, but the explanation was so long, I had to break it in two. This ought to answer some of your questions, and the next chapter should answer the rest. Thanks to all my clever bunnies for picking up on the little things. And yes, I did just call you a bunny.

Also, Kegel wants me to put a warning about strong language in this chapter, but I felt that the M rating covered that. ;o) You've seen worse than a few dirty words.

* * *

Greg's blood ran cold as his hand gripped the cool doorknob so tightly he felt he'd snap it right off. For a long time, nothing happened, and no one spoke, and Greg almost wondered if he'd imagined it, like he had imagined Grissom and his father and even Death Himself. 

He had to check. He had to be sure. Because the silence was killing him, and he couldn't move until he knew. And he needed every second he could get.

So slowly and taking deep breaths, Greg turned his head. As classic as any mobster movie, the large chair behind the desk slowly turned to reveal the Rat sitting there as calm as could be, touching his fingertips together as his elbows rested on the chair. He fixed Greg with a dark stare that petrified him.

"Have a seat, Greg," he said, gesturing to the chair in front of the desk.

Greg's eyes darted from the Rat back to the door. What was he doing? Why wasn't the Rat calling in his goons or restraining Greg himself? Did he actually expect Greg would listen to him and sit down?

And yet, the mere fact that he had even asked Greg to sit down sparked Greg's interest. He was acting as though he and Greg were formal acquaintances, like business associates or a lawyer and his client. Greg knew he should be getting the hell out of there, and if the Rat was just going to sit there, now was his perfect chance.

But he stayed. And he didn't know why.

"Who are you?" Greg asked daringly, not moving from the door.

The Rat chuckled. "I'm almost offended you don't recognize me," he said.

Greg squinted at him. "We've… met before?"

Slowly, the Rat nodded. "Please, have a seat, Greg," the Rat said. "I'll pour you some port and we can talk a while before this whole place burns down."

"What are you talking about?" Greg asked. "How did you know that I…"

"The flame room is right next to the spark room," the Rat said with a clever smile. "I knew that if you stumbled across it, you'd do what anyone would have done. We as animals have an instinct to destroy anything that threatens us. What better way than to burn it down?"

Greg was intrigued by now, and the lure of wine was enough to make him tentatively approach the chair. He hadn't had anything to eat for a good long while now, and wine would be heavenly. "You knew I would escape," he deducted, sitting down.

As Greg warily took his seat, the Rat rose to his feet and walked over to the credenza where the port and glasses were kept. He pulled two glasses off of the shelf and uncorked the port, pouring as he spoke.

"Of course I knew you'd escape," the Rat said. "You're a smart kid. If I gave you the opportunity, you would seize it."

"What opportunity?" Greg didn't understand at all. All this time he had felt rather proud of himself that he had outsmarted his captors and this man was trying to tell him it was his plan all along?

"Your father's ring," the Rat explained, handing Greg the glass of wine. Greg clasped the wineglass with both hands and greedily gulped it down. It occurred to Greg that the receptionist had been right: it _was_ the best wine he had ever tasted. The Rat smiled fondly at the sight and took Greg's glass when he had finished, exchanging it for the bottle instead. "Just take the whole thing, son, I won't be needing it anymore anyway."

Greg blinked at him, grasping the neck of the bottle and holding it close to him like a precious toy he was afraid would be taken away from him. "You're not making any sense."

The Rat slowly walked around his desk and sat down in the chair, looking out the window at the night sky. "Soon enough I'll be dead, and I just wanted you to understand before the government covers it up again. Otherwise, you'll never know the truth about your father's murder."

Greg was really intrigued now and his eyebrows came together in an expression of suspicion. "Who are you?" he asked again.

He deflected the question. "You're mother's doing well, I see," he said. "I went to see her the other day, we had some of that cherry pie you love so much."

Greg's stomach roared at the mention of food. "Don't talk about my mom's pie right now, I'm—" But Greg stopped himself and looked up at the Rat again. Recognition etched itself in his brow as he squinted at the man who sat before him. He hadn't seen him in fifteen years, but he was almost one hundred percent sure. He had aged horribly, his face barely looked the same as it did fifteen years ago. But at least he still had all his hair, graying as it was. "Wesley?"

The Rat leaned back in his chair and smiled triumphantly. "And to think, I thought you'd forgotten me."

"You knew…" Greg whispered, suddenly furious. "You knew all this _time_ and you didn't _tell_ us! You didn't tell my _mother_ what happened to her _husband_! Instead, you lied, and you tried to get into her pants… ugh!" He was disgusted and leapt to his feet, pacing in the room as he ran a trembling hand through his hair. He just kept shaking his head. "I can't believe you, man…" he said, then stopped to look at the Rat again, now more of a rodent to Greg than ever before because of all his sins. "You were his friend since you were toddlers, I mean…"

"Your father wasn't exactly a saint, Greg," the Rat said icily, rising to his feet as well as he leaned on his desk with both hands. "He was a torturer and a murderer, just like me. And what's worse, he was a traitor of the worst kind."

"A traitor!" Greg began to laugh hysterically, throwing his arms up into the air and spilling some of the port. "Call Benedict Arnold because he has _nothing_ on Mark Sanders! I know! Let's kill him! Viciously brutalize him and dump his body in Lake Mead leaving his wife and kid to wonder if he abandoned them while his best friend tries to score with his grieving wife! You're a mother fucker, you know that? _Literally_."

The Rat chuckled lightly before nodding. "You always were quite witty, Greg. Not even the torture could take that from you."

"You gotta look at the funny things in life," Greg said as soberly as he had ever said anything in his life. "If you don't make light of a dark situation, you'll lose the reason you keep going."

"Sit down, Greg, this story is not for the faint of heart," the Rat said, taking a seat himself.

Greg scoffed, but sat down nonetheless. "Yeah, you think after all this bullshit I'm 'faint of heart.' You're one logical son of a bitch."

"After what I've seen, Greg, you can do much better than simple sarcasm," the Rat said with a small smile.

"So what? My father betrayed you and you let them kill him? You're an asshole."

"You like calling me names, don't you Greg?" the Rat said, amused.

Greg shrugged. "It helps with the monstrous rage, yeah. Fish fucker."

"That's an interesting one," the Rat said.

"Well, I try, limp dick," Greg replied casually, folding his arms. "So are you going to tell me about my dad, or what, jackass? Because if you're just going to sit here and call him a traitor— you castrated cockface— then I'm just going to get up and leave. Twat breath."

"Are you quite finished?" the Rat asked.

"Just one more," Greg said. "Ostrich-raping fetal wart. OK, I'm done. You were saying?"

"Your mother would be appalled to hear you use that language," said the Rat.

"I figured, I've already been to hell," Greg said. "If I'm going back just because of a few little words I want to say, then fuck the devil."

"You have your father's daring attitude, that's for sure," the Rat mused with a sigh. "I… am sorry, for what happened. Believe me when I tell you that Greg. Because for all the things your father was, he was still a better person than me. I realized that only recently. Only after you…" He didn't finish the sentence, but he did get down to business.

"In 1967, before the détente period of the Cold War, a psychiatrist by the name of Dr. Henry White had a particularly dangerous theory in order to deal with communist spies. As you may or may not know, torture of political prisoners in that era was indeed quite common and quite brutal, but it was all underground. The US government could never admit to practicing torture, even before the UN's Convention Against Torture Act because at the time, they were trying to make themselves look like the heroes of freedom fighting against an inhumane communist agenda. So Dr. White developed ways of torturing with plausible deniability; that is to say, there were two cardinal rules we had to follow: Never leave a lasting mark, and by all means do not let the prisoner die."

"Why are you telling me this?" Greg asked. "What does this have to do with my father?"

"I'm getting to that," the Rat said, nodding at Greg in understanding. "You see, your father and I were fresh out of college in 1967, in the top five percent of our class, bright young boys eager for a future serving our country the best we could. He having a graduate degree in business and I in international relations, we were both approached by Dr. White's associates through our fraternity. We were asked to join the program. At the time, we were both eager to battle the big monster that threatened our freedom and signed up willingly. We started out like the young boys you've seen. At first, we weren't allowed to touch the prisoners. That was the professionals' jobs. But they were teaching us, just like we're teaching those boys. There's a technique to torture, Greg. You have to give up a little of your soul in order to do it right, but when you do, the thrill is despicably beautiful, like the most intoxicating drug you're too embarrassed to admit to liking. And let me tell you, Greg, your father was one of the best."

Greg shuddered at the loathsome compliment. "He was one of you…" he whispered. "But I don't believe it…"

"Belief or disbelief rests with you," the Rat said. "It's no skin off my nose if you want to live in denial. But what I'm telling you is the truth, whether you believe it or not. Your father would have been the best agent we had… Were it not for his distractions. Namely, Olivia. And when he heard she was pregnant with you, he actually had the audacity to try and quit. But you don't quit the program. Once you agree, once you've sold your soul to the devil, there is no turning back. And Mark got his punishment. Dr. White locked him in the sun room for two days. Between you and me, I think that was when everything changed for Mark."

"What are you talking about?" Greg asked. "What changed?"

The Rat sighed again, looking ancient beyond his sixty-odd years. "When the UNCAT was being discussed in the seventies, and Cold War fever was declining, the need for our services began to fade. The government decided it would be best to discontinue the program. Dr. White was furious. He refused to stop. And in retaliation, he intensified his procedures. Before, we used the sun room, sleep deprivation, isolation, water boarding… All things you've experienced. Things that were intensely brutal, but left no lasting visible marks. But afterwards, we began to use the flame room. The spark room. The lash. Lye. Amputation of extremities. The Pear and variations of it. Humiliation, castration, flaying, denailing, disfigurement, boiling and scaphism. Oh, the scaphism executions were the worst…" The Rat trailed off and Greg almost wanted to ask what 'scaphism' was, but decided he'd rather not know.

The Rat snapped out of his trance and continued. "Anyways, he was fired of course, but by then he had devout students of his technique, myself and your father included, who rallied with him and continued in its practice with people we deemed dangerous to our country. I've tortured my fair share of alleged terrorists from the Russians to the Middle Easterners. Whatever the enemy, we sought them out and brutalized them out of a grotesque need to see them suffer. After 9/11, there was a huge swell of… who we were told were terrorists… brought in…" His voice began to shake, his eyes finding a point on the wall somewhere far behind Greg. "I supervised the sexual exploitation of a Muslim woman at the hands of six men. We were told she had terrorist connections, but…" He shook his head, ridding himself of the nightmare and smiled at Greg again.

"But I digress. Where was I? Oh yes. The 1970s. Your father. After you were born, you know, you were all he could talk about. Olivia had already miscarried twice by now, so according to him, you truly were a gift from God. But we didn't know at the time that he wasn't working with us anymore. He was working against us. You see, after the split from the government, the CIA sent in… spies. To help them capture Dr. White and feed them information on the terrorists— for that's what _they_ called _us_— working for him. They couldn't just barge in and seize us, you see. Dr. White was never at the institutions which carried out his practice." Greg looked surprised at the plural noun, but the Rat simply nodded. "Yes, Greg, institutions, as in there were— are— many, all over the country. They needed to capture the good doctor. That is why the spies were their most useful asset. Your father was one among a handful of Dr. White's original recruits to betray him, to betray us. And when I heard the news…"

* * *

_Seventeen years ago…_

"Clarke."

He locked the door to the prisoner's cell and looked up at Phillip Donovan who was looking at him with a dark gaze. "What is it, Dr. Donovan?"

"Your friend Sanders has been discovered as a government spy," Donovan spat. "Dr. White wants you to take care of him… _personally._"

A fire burned in his stomach. Mark? Was Donovan _sure_? Mark would never betray the cause. It's true, he had been a little distracted lately, but that was because Olivia was starting up with him again, and hadn't Greg recently skipped a year in school? Greg's birthday was coming up, too. He must be thinking about that. "Dr. Donovan, with all due respect, Mark would _never_—"

"Well, he did," Donovan said, shifting. "And Dr. White wants to make sure that _you_ weren't helping him."

Wesley was appalled at the accusation. "I am loyal to the cause, sir."

"Good," Donovan said, handing Wesley the brand. "Then take care of it."

For the first time in twenty-three years of unquestioningly following orders, Wesley hesitated. He looked down at the metal brand he held in his hands then up at Donovan. "Sir… _Mark Sanders_? I mean, he's one of our best operatives, I've known him since we were kids, I…"

"Don't let your emotions cloud your judgment, Clarke," Donovan hissed, beginning to walk down the hall. "You'll find him in the flame room all ready for you."

As Wesley stared at the brand in his hand, he knew exactly what he had to do. He made his way to the flame room, his head spinning with thoughts as he did so. Mark betrayed them. _Mark_ betrayed _them_. Wesley took this as a personal injury, an insult to their years of friendship. Wesley had thought Mark believed in the cause. Wesley had thought that Mark was one of them. But Wesley had been wrong. And Wesley hated to look like the fool.

He threw the door to the flame room open to see Mark strapped to the chair, already looking beaten and worn. His right eye was swollen and discolored and his left arm looked broken. At the sight of his old friend, however, Mark's eyes widened and he opened his mouth to speak.

"Don't talk," Wesley ordered as he slowly walked over to Mark. "It will just be worse if you talk."

Mark's mouth closed and he nodded, but he followed Wesley with his eyes as he walked over to the kiln in the corner of the room, which was already on, the fire inside leaping into action. Wesley opened the door and held the brand over the flames as he spoke.

"I can't believe you, Mark," he said quietly. "I thought we trusted each other." He looked over his shoulder at his traitorous friend. "They tell me you've betrayed us. I suppose you're going to tell me it's not true? That you're loyal to the end."

"I spoke to my son about bravery the other day…" Mark whispered, his voice hoarse. "I told him he wasn't allowed to let anyone hold any power to him. I'd be a hypocrite if I didn't report this organization, Wesley. We're doing more harm than good. You know that. I know you must know that."

"Shut up," Wesley hissed, but he winced as if Mark's words were a slap in the face. "I'm serving my country—"

"_No_, Wesley," Mark interrupted. "You're _not_. Maybe we were when this all started, but even then it didn't make it right. The things we do to people. We're worse than the terrorists, Wesley. We're worse than the communists. We kill our own people. We torture anyone we even suspect might have different opinions than us. We brutalize anyone who even has the tiniest bit of criticism of the way America does things. That's not serving our country, Wesley. It's terrorism."

In one swift motion, Wesley spun around, pulling the glowing red brand from out of the flames as he pressed it hard against Mark's back. Mark screamed as his flesh sizzled and bubbled with the brand, and in his fury Wesley pushed harder, burning deeper, until even the blood leaking from the wound sizzled and evaporated. He burned clear through to the bone before finally taking the brand away and throwing it to the ground. Mark continued to scream, even after he pulled the iron away and soon, his screams turned into sobs.

"Wesley… we were kids together…"

Wesley walked around and shook his head sadly, taking a gasoline can and Mark's arm, pouring the gasoline on his forearm and taking a match.

"That doesn't matter now, Mark," he whispered. "You disgust me."

Mark looked up at Wesley with desperate eyes. "Do what you want to me," he breathed. "Take care of my family."

Wesley hesitated with the match as he made the mistake of looking his victim in the eye and something in his cold heart twitched. "You did it for them, didn't you?"

Mark didn't answer as he began to sob again. "Do it. Just to it, Wesley."

"We were your family too, you know," Wesley said. "I could have helped you. You should have talked to me, I could have stopped you from making this mistake."

"It was the only way…" Mark whispered. "I couldn't keep torturing innocent people anymore, I have a _son_ to think about, Wesley! What morals would I have been teaching him, I couldn't—"

Wesley smacked him hard across the face, making Mark spit out a tooth. "What good are you to your family dead, hm, Mark? It would have been better for them if you just followed orders. You're just being selfish."

But Mark shook his head slowly as his whole body quivered. "No…" Mark said, looking up at Wesley. "Selfish is not doing it. Selfish is being too afraid to stand up to the evil in this agency. Selfish is torturing a man until he forgets who he is, when his only crime was laughing at the way Richard Nixon talks on TV. I've been teaching my boy all the wrong values. He wants to be like me." Mark laughed, nearly in hysterics. "Can you imagine, Wesley? He wants to be just like me."

But Wesley had finally had enough. He yanked Mark's arm out to the side and threw the match on it, watching his skin burst into flames as he listened to Mark's screams…


	11. Don't Look Back

_**Author's Note:**_ You have my solemn vow that we'll see what the others have been up to... NEXT chapter. :o) In the meantime, enjoy.

* * *

_The Present._

Greg listened to this story in horror. "What kind of sick bastard does that to their best friend?"

"I am what I am, Greg," the Rat said simply. "I don't pretend to be anything different."

"You _pretended_ every _day_!" Greg spat. "You pretended with me. With my mother."

The Rat sighed and nodded. "Your father didn't die that day, you know. He lasted for nearly three weeks afterwards. Not nearly as long as you did, but in the end, his dignity stripped from him, he was begging to die. But there was one thing he made me promise him. Right before they took him away, I remember, he called after me. He told me to look out for you. He told me not to let you turn out like he did. He wanted me to take care of his family. The family he loved more than his own life, in the end. I never answered his desperate plea, but… But I did insist he have a proper burial. I appealed to Dr. Donovan—that was Dr. White's main man back in the day. I told him that Mark Sanders had given us years of loyal service before his betrayal, and that he deserved a little respect in death, even if he didn't have it at the end of his years. They granted me a coffin, one I had to purchase with my own money, and dumped it—along with the naked, twisted bodies of several other victims that had died earlier that week— into the depths of Lake Mead. Afterwards, I went to San Gabriel to you and your mother, to try and… Well, I don't know what I was trying to do. Make good on a promise I never made, I suppose. And if he saw the things I've done to you today…"

"Yeah," Greg said, nodding vigorously. "Yeah, Wesley, what _would_ he do if he'd seen the things you've done to me?" He pulled at the bandages wrapped around his chest. "I mean… What the _fuck_ is _wrong_ with you people!" he exclaimed, nearly hysterically. "You say you did this because you were _ordered_ to? Like you have no will or mind of your own? What is this, the fucking… Nuremberg Trials?! Did I travel back in time to Nazi Germany? This guy, this… Dr. White guy, did he _really believe_ that all this would _help_ his _country_? Why these people, Wesley? Why me? I'm not a terrorist, I'm not some threat to this country, I'm just a kid trying to make a decent living, which is more than I can say for you."

The Rat leaned back calmly in his chair, but he shook his head. "I make no excuses for the things that I have done. I admit to doing them, and doing them of my own free will. I cannot rectify the wrongs this program has committed, but I can, at least, keep a promise I never even made verbally, but must have made silently, on some level. You, Greg, posed no actual threat to our country, but you did pose a threat to our agency. At the time of your abduction, I was still a loyal follower of Dr. White, and the head of this branch. When I heard you found the bodies we dumped and our own spy informed us that you knew your father was among them, I knew you would conduct your own investigation into your father's murder. Now, I've been watching you for a long time, Greg. I've seen how you've progressed in your career, and your investigative skills could rival Sherlock Holmes. But I couldn't have you exposing all we've worked for for the past forty years. I couldn't have you selling us up the river to the CIA. So I chose you to conduct an experiment."

"What kind of experiment?" Greg asked, slowly.

"I needed you incapacitated, but even with all my cold-heartedness, I couldn't kill you outright," the Rat explained. "Your death… had to _mean_ something. Your father's death was unfortunate, but in the end, it didn't mean anything. So you were to be my breakthrough. You were going to help me prove myself to the good doctor. You were going to help me gain his trust, and maybe join his inner circle.

"I conducted on you a series of methods meant to break your spirit as quickly and efficiently as possible. The signal that you had finally surrendered was, of course, the relinquishment of your identity. Once you'd given me that, I would present you to Dr. White and prove my worthiness. You, the son of the traitorous Mark Sanders. But you were stronger than even I gave you credit for. And my plan began to backfire. Instead of our techniques rubbing off on you, your endless optimism, your need for humor, your… outstanding obstinacy ended up effecting _me_. I saw him more and more in your slowly dying eyes and… A few weeks ago, I went to the CIA and told them everything. They are coming, Greg.

"Earlier today, the other prisoners— Yes, Greg, for surely you did not think you were the _only_ one. All the other prisoners have been executed. You are the only one left alive, and were scheduled to be electrocuted in the spark room today, and probably would have been were it not for the ring I slipped into your hand earlier. Thanks to you, and, partially, to me, the CIA has a solid foothold in this organization and intend to use this institution and the people who have betrayed it in order to get one step closer to capturing Henry White."

But Greg was frowning. "Thanks to me…?"

The Rat nodded and opened a desk drawer, pulling out a crinkled Post-It note and sliding it across the table. "While you were subdued, I went to your apartment and found this."

Greg rapidly uncrumpled the paper and his heart sank. "Oh no…"

"I don't know who Poncho or Sunshine are," the Rat said quietly, "but I do recognize a distress call when I see one. Haven't you wondered why your friends never followed up on that note? We have some skilled hand-writing experts in our employ, who studied that note and replaced it with a… shall we say, less suspicious goodbye from you to your friends."

"What did it say?" Greg whispered, still staring at the wrinkled Post-It in his quaking hands.

The Rat sighed. "That you were asked to assist the government in the investigation of the John Doe you found and not to look for you, or ask for you, because it was top secret and you needed to… disappear for a while. So while that note served its purpose, I kept this one in my desk, should we need it to write more notes from you to your friends in order to appease them. But a few weeks ago, I gave a copy of it to the CIA anonymously, along with the dates which we would be executing our latest batch of prisoners. I don't think they understood half of your note either, but they did understand Jean Luc's Pet Clinic, and that was all they needed. They'll be here soon enough to set things right again, at least in this branch. But they still aren't any closer to capturing Henry White. I'm convinced there no longer is a Henry White. He was a good twenty years older than me, and I doubt he's still in this business. I think the name has just become a pseudonym for whoever is running the show now."

"You made me disappear…" Greg muttered, not even listening to the Rat anymore. "They weren't even looking for me…"

"You're wrong about that," the Rat told him. "I'm sure you know your friends well enough by now to know that they never take anything at face value. But you can ask them about that when you see them again."

Greg looked up, surprised at the words. For a long time, he had given up hope that he would ever see any of them again.

The Rat rose to his feet. "You should go now, Greg. For in a matter of hours, this place will disappear and the government will deny its very existence. Jean Luc's Pet Clinic will be permanently out of business. And I can guarantee that you and your mother will never hear from me again."

Greg, too, rose to his feet and fixed the Rat with a stony gaze. This was the man who had tortured him. The man he used to know like an uncle as Wesley Clarke. Were they truly one and the same? Had his father also committed such heinous acts against his own humanity? Was it true that everyone wore two faces? And if this was the other person his father was, the person he became when the night came and bled darkness into his soul, then what of his mother? What of his friends? Or more horrifyingly, what monster had the night turned _him_ into? What masks would he now wear to society in order to survive?

Greg was out of words. He was out of jokes. And he was out of tears.

So without a word, he reached for the ring on his hand and pulled it off. He saw a small burn on his ring finger where the electricity had connected with Chuck. He looked at the ring in the palm of his hand for a moment, then up at Wesley. Licking his cracked lips, he reached out and placed the ring on the table, his eyes never leaving Wesley's. His gaze was unforgiving, but the gesture was confusing to Wesley.

The old man frowned as he reached for the ring and looked at it, then up at Greg. "Why…?"

"I just thought," Greg said tonelessly, "that if they put you in the electric chair, you might need lightning to strike twice."

Wesley's lips twitched as his fingers closed around the ring. "Thank you, Greg." With these small words, he tried to convey what the merciful gesture meant to him.

"Don't thank me," Greg said sternly. "I wish I could kill you. I really wish I had the vengeful evil it takes to take out a gun and blow your brains out right here. But there's a difference between you and me. And that's that I don't take lives. No matter how much they may deserve to die. I'm not God, or a judge issuing a death sentence. I'm just a kid. Trying to make an honest living. That said, I hope they don't electrocute you. I hope you don't get the chance for a lucky break like I had. I hope they burn you. I hope they throw you in a pot and boil your flesh away. I hope they use… that scaphism thing, or whatever the hell you seem the most afraid of. But you saved my life. Even after trying to kill my spirit. And I don't pretend to understand you, or to like you. But a debt is a debt. And I've repaid mine."

He took his shirt and the bottle of wine, raising the port in the air as if in a silent toast to their uneasy wordless agreement. "I'll be going now. And I'm not going to look back at this place. Ever."

Wesley Clarke nodded, but didn't say a word as he watched Greg turn on his heal, his shirt slung over his shoulder and the wine clasped firmly in his hand as he headed for the door, slamming it shut behind him.

He headed for the reception area, which he could see was only feet away. He couldn't walk fast enough, but he was too exhausted to run, and his legs were still shaking and sore from the electricity. Finally, he made it to the door and opened it, causing the brunette receptionist he had seen earlier to wake up at her desk. She looked at him and then jumped to her feet, leaning across the desk and shaking a finger at him as he made for the exit.

"Hey!" she said. "Wait, you're not supposed to—"

"Hey beautiful," Greg said over his shoulder as he opened the door. He raised the bottle of wine at her. "You were right. Best damn port I've ever had."

She opened and closed her mouth in shock like a goldfish as she watched him walk right out the door.

Greg stopped when he found himself under the stars, the Las Vegas lights filtering through the night air like Nevada's own Aurora Borealis. He looked around the parking lot. It was empty. He figured they must have ditched his car. His cell phone was in that car. So was his kit. He might have to pay to replace that. He wondered how much forensic kits cost… It was probably very expensive. That was just his luck.

Greg shook his head and remembered coming in he had seen a pay phone a few blocks away. He made his way in that direction, wondering exactly what he was going to do now that he had his freedom again. Being in the real world felt so surreal to him. He had been away for far too long. He should probably go to a hospital to make sure he had suffered no lasting damage. Yet even as the thought occurred to him, Greg knew that lasting damage always came with torture. But the scars were much deeper than his appearance showed.

Three blocks away from Jean Luc's Pet Clinic, Greg found a payphone outside of a 7-11. For a moment, he thought about going in there and buying what food he could get, but a quick fumbling in his pockets told him that he had left his wallet in his car too. He was broke and starving. Greg really did feel for the homeless.

Still, in the depths of the pockets of his jeans, Greg found two quarters and deliberated for a moment about whether he wanted to spend it on the pay phone or a Slim Jim. He figured once he got a ride, he could get all the food he wanted at home. And Blue Hawaiian, oh hell how he was craving some warm Blue Hawaiian. But his last stash was at the lab, since he usually spent most of his time there anyways. The lab had food. And the diner was nearby. He could get one of his friends to buy him food. Probably. Providing they were feeling generous. The last time he had asked Nick to borrow money, the Texan had reminded him that he still owed Nick forty dollars. Greg didn't know how in debt he was to Nick at the moment, but figured the fact that he hadn't seen Nick in a while _might_ just fudge those little details.

Yes. They'd feed him. They'd feed him until he was fatter than a whale.

Greg kept forgetting that he hadn't seen his friends in a long time. He was half convinced that this whole escape had been a delusion. Some cruel joke his mind was playing on him and soon enough he'd snap out of it and find himself alone in his cell.

He looked at the phone and wondered which number to dial. He didn't remember the numbers of any of his friends off the top of his head. But he did remember one number that he had memorized so he could use it even when he was drunk off his ass.

"Yellow Cab, what's your address?" The voice was flat and to the point. It had been doing this all night and was very tired.

Address? Greg looked for street signs. "Corner of Roosevelt and Dawn. Outside the 7-11."

"Where are you going?"

Greg deliberated a moment. Hospital, home, crime lab. He didn't want to go to the hospital. The white walls would remind him too much of the hell he'd been in. He needed to go shopping at home. And Sara always kept a veggie wrap in the fridge at work for her veggie munchies. Plus, Blue Hawaiian… " Las Vegas Crime Lab."

"Name?" the voice intoned automatically.

"Greg Sanders."

"Phone number?"

"Uh… This one?" Greg said, hoping they had caller ID.

"Hold on." There was a pause. "OK. When do you want it?"

"Now would be good," Greg replied.

"We can get one there in about half an hour, is that OK?"

Greg groaned inwardly. But he had lasted this long, what was another half hour? "Fine, OK, just… get here as fast as possible, would you? I'm dying here."

"Yeah, aren't we all," the voice joked with no humor to the tone. "OK, thank you for using Yellow Cab."

Greg hung up and shook out his shirt before pulling it on, sitting on the curb as he buttoned it up. When he had finished, he tucked his hand in his armpit as he raised the port to his lips. His head began to feel a little dizzy and he thought it was probably best not to drink so much wine now, especially on an empty stomach. A _very_ empty stomach. No matter how hungry he was, the alcohol would just make things worse. So he reluctantly lowered the wine from his lips and stared up at the sky again. He was still waiting to wake up. For this to have all been some incredible, hopes-raising dream. What would it be like to see his friends again? He wondered if things would be different between them now. Now that he had seen the real monsters the night brings. Now that he had let all the skeletons out of his closet.

How long had he been gone? He looked around for anything to tell him a date but found nothing. There was a breeze and he was suddenly cold. Was it fall already? The leaves were turning on the trees nearby. Greg remembered the date he had left. August 18th. What day was it now? Was it September? Was it November?

It was too cold for September, and too warm for November. So it had to be October. He rubbed his hands together to warm them. A car drove by and a teenager leaned out the passenger window and yelled at him.

"Get a job, you bum!"

Greg made sure to flip them off as they drove away. He looked at the bottle of port sitting next to him. It was too tempting. He could just drink himself to a stupor until the cab came. He probably wouldn't be sober enough to speak though. If he'd held out this long, he could wait another half hour.

It seemed like decades before the cab finally pulled up to the curb. "You Greg Sanders?" the cabbie asked him.

Getting to his feet a little too fast, Greg staggered before he nodded with raised eyebrows. He blinked. The cabbie smiled.

"You going home, man?" he asked, obviously noting the bottle of port in Greg's hand.

"Nah," said Greg, climbing into the back seat. "I told them Crime Lab."

"You wanna report something?" the driver asked as he shifted into gear.

"Yeah," Greg said. "My abduction and torture and attempted murder. Plus they have my coffee. I want it back."

The cabbie chuckled. "How much of that have you had?"

Greg looked at the bottle before shrugging. "I don't know how much was in it to begin with." It was true. It had been half gone already by the time Wesley had given it to him. Now there was about a quarter left. Had he drank that whole thing?

"Right," the cabbie said, obviously passing Greg off as a drunk. "Where do you live, buddy, I'm gonna take you home."

Greg rolled his eyes. "Dude. I said Crime Lab."

"OK," the cabbie said. "Las Vegas Crime Lab, here we come."

"How long is this gonna take?" Greg asked.

"The lab's about an hour from here. Why, you going to pass out on me?"

"No," Greg said. "I don't think so at any rate."

The driver smiled at him in the mirror. "Hey, don't worry about it, happens a lot. You feel a little groggy go ahead and take a nap. Promise I won't screw you over."

Greg smiled, but despite his kind attitude, he didn't trust the cab driver. He had lived in a world where everyone had the worst intentions. It was hard adjusting to the world where good Samaritans still existed. So he resolved to stay awake, even though now that the driver mentioned it, he was pretty tired. He leaned his head against the window…

"Buddy? Mr. Sanders!"

Greg opened his eyes to see the cab driver grinning at him in the rearview mirror.

"We're here, man," he said. "You slept like a baby the whole way here."

"Well this seat is the most comfortable thing I've felt in… Hey, what day is it?" Greg asked.

"Tuesday," the driver replied.

Greg blinked. His migraine was still there. Aspirin would be nice. "I mean… The date. What's the date?"

The driver thought a moment. "October 30th. Yeah, that's right, 'cause tomorrow's Halloween."

"Halloween…" Greg muttered, totally shocked. Two months was a long time. And yet, it felt too short. "Wait… And it's… two thousand…"

"Seven," the cabbie said as slowly as he could as though talking to a toddler. "You going to be OK there, buddy?"

Greg bit his lips and realized they were still split. He wanted Chap Stick so badly… Two months. Two months was a very long time. "Yeah," Greg said, nodding, his hand flying to his temple in a vain attempt to control his headache. "Yeah, I'll be fine."

"That'll be forty-three sixty," the driver said simply.

Greg gave him a confused look before it dawned on him what the driver was asking for. "Oh!" he said suddenly. "Money! Right. Uh… I don't have that right now. Hold on, I'll go get you some."

"Promise you won't ditch me?" the driver said, half-joking, half-serious.

Greg nodded. "Unless my friend decides he wants to be an asshole. I'll be right back. Promise."

Greg climbed out of the cab and looked up at the front entrance of the Crime Lab. He let out a long sigh and shook his head, a slight smile tugging on his lips. _Man_ it was good to be home. Grasping the neck of the wine bottle tightly, he made his way inside.

**END OF PART ONE**


	12. Part Two: Uneasy Reunions

_**Author's Note:**_ A wonderful woman by the name of KC Sanchez (who happened to be my playwriting teacher) once told me that if you want to write a riveting play, break the audience's expectations. Hint at a kiss, then lead up to that kiss, and then take it away. Don't give it to them. Because while your audience will hate you, for the moment at least, they'll hang on, if only to see if that kiss ever occurs. Granted, by inevitably meeting the audience's expectations, you run the risk of having the event be anticlimactic, or not as eventful as the audience (after waiting so long for it) had thought it would be. That is why, in presenting you with this chapter, I do so with great caution. Generally when I break expectations, I shatter them, in that I build and build and then do a 180 degree turn and go in the oposite direction. But this chapter has, as many of you stated in your reviews, been a long time coming, and this story would of course be incomplete without the aftermath portion of events, or, as I call it, "Part Two." This story wasn't supposed to exceed ten chapters, well, you can see how that turned out. And then I promised someone else it wouldn't exceed twelve, well, that failed too. I just hope by now not to exceed twenty. ;o)

Read, enjoy, and by all means review, my clever bunnies. Nothing makes my day better than your enthusiastic comments.

* * *

**PART TWO  
**

_"If I could reach you, I'd guide you and teach you, to walk from the darkness back into the light."  
_-**Henry Jekyll, "Lost In The Darkness" from Jekyll & Hyde (the musical)**

He rubbed his temples as he walked through the main doors. Someone bumped him on the shoulder on the way out. Everyone was bustling around, business as usual. He walked right by Judy at reception, who glanced up at him from some paper work before doing a double take and staring at him, her jaw almost hitting her desk. Greg didn't say anything to her as he made his way down the hall, looking for one of his friends so he could ask if he could borrow money for the cab. And for food, that would be nice too.

His feet, which were quite possibly led by his stomach, took him to the break room where he saw Nick, who had his back to him. His hands were grasping the edges of the table by the fridge and his head was hung low. He looked burdened, like Atlas with the world on his shoulders. Greg wondered why as he hovered in the doorway and watched his friend for a moment. He was still tired, and leaned against the doorframe for support.

Soon, Nick stood up straight and sighed as he stared at the ceiling. He grabbed a coffee mug and lifted it to his lips. He was still drinking when he turned around and saw Greg. His eyes doubled in size and he spat out the coffee all over the floor, coughing up what he must have inhaled in the silent gasp of surprise at seeing his worn looking friend.

"Hey," Greg said feebly, before Nick could recover enough to speak. He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. "Uh, I know I owe you money and all, but I have a cab waiting and—"

"Where the _fuck_ have you _been_?!" Nick finally roared, still coughing slightly as he just stared at Greg in open astonishment.

"Uh…" Greg's eyes wandered to his right, avoiding Nick's gaze. He didn't want to talk about where he'd been. Not at that moment. He had more pressing matters to attend to. "I'll just get right to the point. I need fifty dollars for the cab. I'll pay you sixty on… what day is it? Tuesday? OK, I'll give you sixty on Friday, plus whatever else I owe you, but I need this favor, is that cool?"

Nick stared at him as though he were a Martian newly landed on Earth. "Holy… I mean… What?"

"Mo-ney," Greg said slowly, annunciating each syllable. "I _need_ it."

Nick blinked and seemed to come out of his stupor. He looked about to speak, before he decided against it and bit his lip. He tried to speak again, but stopped. Finally, he found the words. "You've been missing… for two months… You left without a word or a phone call or anything… And the first thing you do when I _see_ you again is to ask for money?"

Greg shifted on the spot as his eyes looked around the room before he nodded. "Yup, that's about right." Greg held out his hand expectantly. "I mean, if you don't have it, I could go ask Judy, she looked eager to talk to me."

A series of emotions flickered across Nick's face. Greg couldn't name them all, but they ran the gamut from confusion, to amusement, to relief, to annoyance, to suspicion. "Hey, wait a minute," Nick said. "Don't you owe me sixty bucks already?"

"Do I?" Greg asked casually. "I don't recall."

But Nick had already fished out his wallet and was digging through it, muttering to himself. He pulled out two twenties and a ten and handed them to Greg. "What's this for?" He obviously hadn't been listening.

"A cab," Greg replied absently, counting the money to be sure it was the right amount.

Nick frowned in disapproval. "You could have called me, you know. I would have picked you up, _and_ saved you fifty bucks. Saved _me_ fifty bucks, I should say. I know you won't pay me back."

Greg looked up at Nick and smirked a smile so wide and genuine, it lit up the whole room. "You know me too well, my friend."

"So why didn't you call?" Nick pressed.

Greg pocketed the money and avoided Nick's gaze again as he turned around and started heading back for the exit. "Uh… I didn't know your number," he said.

Nick followed him and matched his swift pace. Greg walked faster, trying to lose him and avoid talking about it.

"Isn't it in your phone?" Nick asked, not letting Greg get away.

As they passed reception, Judy inhaled to speak, but Greg held up a hand at her, successfully silencing her.

"Yeah, I, uh, lost my phone," Greg said as he pushed the doors open.

Nick continued to pursue him. "When did you lose your phone?"

"Two months ago," Greg replied vaguely as he came up to the car, which was waiting by the curb.

"Fair enough, but _how_ did you lose it?" Nick knew he wasn't asking the right questions.

Greg leaned into the cab and handed the driver the fifty dollars. "Thanks for the lift, man." He held up the bottle of wine. "You a port drinker?"

"Nah," said the driver with a smile. "Can't have an opened bottle in the car. The law, you know."

Greg grinned. "I'd almost forgotten it even existed," he said truthfully.

The cab sped away, but Nick lingered. Greg tried to ignore him and head back for the lab, but Nick grabbed his right shoulder and Greg winced.

"Ah!" he hissed. When he opened his eyes again, it was to Nick's horrified expression, his hand withdrawn. Greg closed his eyes and sighed, feeling almost guilty. Nick was worried about him. Nick had probably _been_ worried about him for two months. To deny him the reason for Greg's absence would be like… Would be like Wesley lying to Greg about his father's death.

Greg wanted to ignore it, to pretend it didn't happen and go back to business as usual. But there was no 'plausible deniability' in this instance. Wesley and Chuck had left marks on him that sooner or later people would see and question. Like the brand upon his shoulder. The same mark that was on their John Doe. And if Nick didn't recognize it, Sara and Grissom would.

He looked to his right again, unable to look Nick in the eye. He was suddenly freezing in the night air and rubbed his forearms to warm them. "I, uh… I just keep thinking that this isn't real, it's all some strange dream, and sooner or later I'll wake up and I'll be back there…"

Nick tried to catch his eye and failed. When he spoke, his voice was laced with quiet concern. "Back where, Greg?"

Greg shrugged. "Hell."

"Greg?"

But he didn't reply to Nick's inquisitive call. Instead, he kept searching for anything to look at other than Nick's face. Finally he smiled and tried to laugh it off. "Can we eat? I'm starving. You'll need to pay, of course, but you can just put it on my tab."

Slowly, Nick nodded. "Sure…" he said. "But we should tell Grissom and the others you're back. You should hear them arguing…"

"Arguing?" Greg was confused. "What are they arguing about?"

Nick smiled sadly. "What else but you?" he asked. "Let me tell you, Greg, I have never seen us so divided. Catherine and Sara keep yelling at Grissom, saying he doesn't care enough to find you and Warrick quietly tries to tell them to calm down and they bite his head off—"

"But why are they fighting?" Greg interrupted. He still didn't understand.

Nick sighed. "That note you left raised a few eyebrows, I'm sure you know. It wasn't exactly very clear."

For a moment, Greg thought Nick was talking about his original note and was about to tell Nick that even a toddler could have figured it out when he remembered it was the note that Wesley had left instead. "Oh," he said simply. "Right, about that…"

"Grissom got real quiet after reading it," Nick continued. "And then he just sort of… left. And Sara, she immediately took it in to Ronnie to analyze the handwriting. She didn't think you wrote it at all."

Greg smiled. He knew Sara was too smart for that.

"But Ronnie couldn't give her a reliable answer. He said it was close enough, but not exact, and could have been you in a rush. Handwriting analysis isn't an exact science… So at first, Catherine was furious because she thought Sara was questioning Grissom's judgment. But then Ronnie came back and said the signatures were off, and then she was jumping on the bandwagon for Grissom to do something, but he wouldn't talk about it. I swear, Greg, I've never seen Cath and Sara so united before, and against Grissom no less, it was like hell had frozen over."

"It burnt down, actually," Greg said, unable to help himself.

"I'm sorry?" Nick was confused.

"Nothing," Greg said, knowing he shouldn't have said anything. "And where did you stand in all this controversy?"

"I gotta tell you, Warrick and I didn't know _where_ to stand," Nick said. "I mean, we went ahead and asked the government guys even though you told us not to, and they said they had it under control, so we thought maybe it was accurate. But Cath and Sara were stuck on that letter, and they did have a point. Maybe you can give us some answers? Settle this stupid feud. Everyone will be so relieved to see you're OK."

"You're still fighting?" Greg said, surprised. "After two months?"

"Well, it's not as bad as it was a month ago," Nick admitted. "But it flares up from time to time, yeah. Like tonight. I was just in Grissom's office, it's like a war zone in there. That's when you caught me in the break room. I swear, Greg, I thought you were a ghost. You don't look good. Not at all."

Nick looked at him skeptically and Greg knew he must look terrible. He tried to brush it off. "Yeah, working for the… On my mission, I…" But he couldn't lie to Nick. He'd have to tell them all the truth eventually. He'd have to tell them he wasn't working for the government. He stopped for a moment, his mouth half open as he stared at a point to his right. And then, it hit him for the first time since he left the Pet Clinic. This wasn't a dream. He wouldn't wake up and find himself back in his cell. He wasn't alone anymore. Nick was really there, talking to him, trying to find out the horrors he had been through.

Oh the horrors… they came flooding back to him like forgotten nightmares and Greg choked back a sob, so relieved to finally be out of there. All the emotions swelled in his chest and he covered his mouth with his hand so as to keep them inside, wrapping his other arm around himself, clutching the bottle of wine so tightly he felt he would snap the neck right off.

"Greg?" Once again, Nick's voice was heavily laden with concern as he put a tentative hand on Greg's left shoulder. Greg stifled another sob and closed his eyes to hold back the tears. He couldn't cry now. Not in front of Nick. Nick.

"Oh God, I thought I'd never see you again…" Greg breathed. "And it's you. You're really here…"

Nick smiled kindly and slid his arm around Greg's shoulders. "Come on," he said, a hint of confused worry in his voice. "Let's get you inside, get some food in you… You can tell me all about it later."

But Greg swallowed to open up his constricting throat and shook his head. He would never be able to tell them exactly what he went through. He would tell them what they needed to hear, but no more. He didn't want them to know. He didn't want their pity. He had made it out alive, and that was all that mattered. "Do we… I mean, Grissom?"

Greg didn't know how, but Nick somehow understood this mangled question as he opened the door to the lab. "Yeah, I think we should," Nick said quietly. "If I tell them you were here and didn't even want to see them, it'll just add fuel to the fire."

Greg pursed his lips and nodded, knowing Nick was right. He wanted to assuage their fears anyway. Let them know that he was alive, at least, and stop this argument. "Right," he said, his voice scratchy. "Yeah, OK."

Greg found himself using Nick as more of a support, and Nick seemed to realize it as well as he adjusted his hold on Greg to better serve this purpose. "You're limping," Nick noted simply, to which Greg didn't reply. Nick didn't speak again until they reached Grissom's office.

The door was open and the room was a mess, but most notable was Grissom sitting at his desk looking exceptionally fatigued. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes as Sara and Catherine talked to him from across the desk, their backs to the door. Warrick was sitting in a chair by the wall, his head leaning back as he stared at the ceiling as though wishing this argument was over. He was the first to notice Nick and Greg's entrance and he turned to see who had arrived. His eyes widened and his mouth opened to speak, but was interrupted by a frustrated growl from Catherine.

"Gil, I don't want to do this anymore," she said. "You've been working Sara and me like crazy to make sure we didn't keep nosing about Greg's apartment. I just want some answers. And I know you do too; I've seen it in you. Just open up a case, missing persons, I mean, it's been two months for Christ's sake, but maybe we could still do _something_! You're not just going to leave it in the hands of the _government,_ are you?!"

Grissom closed his eyes and took a deep breath, responding to Catherine before opening them again. "Catherine, I told you, I'm not—" He stopped mid-sentence when he finally opened his eyes and saw the two new arrivals hovering in the doorway. He didn't move for a long time as his eyes met with Greg's, who was equally paralyzed.

"Well?" Sara said. "Spit it out. What half-assed defense are you going to—"

"Sara, shut up," Warrick said quietly, making both Catherine and Sara turn to look at him. Their gaze quickly shifted to Nick and Greg as well when the women realized that the door was the center of attention.

Sara stumbled backwards and fell into a chair. Catherine's fingers flew to her lips, catching a curt gasp. And still, Grissom and Greg did not break eye contact.

"He took a cab here," Nick explained, looking at the young man who was clinging tightly to his arm. "He didn't tell me from where. He lost his phone, and he's hungry, so I just wanted to tell you guys he's here and he's OK…" He trailed off as he saw Greg begin to sway on the spot as he finally broke eye contact with Grissom, his head rolling back on his shoulders. Nick held on tighter to his arm and shook him ever so slightly. "Greg?"

Greg blinked and straightened. "Sorry," he murmured. "Sleepy." He looked around the room with bloodshot eyes at all the stunned faces staring at him. He remembered he still had the wine in his hand so he lifted it in offering. "You guys like port?" he said with a small laugh to lighten the mood. "Good stuff."

Catherine frowned, then looked at Nick. "Is he drunk?"

"Could well be," Nick admitted. "That bottle's almost gone."

"Not drunk," Greg corrected, though his speech was slightly slurred. "Tired. Hungry. Can we get food now?"

Grissom rose to his feet, his expression inscrutable. Greg didn't like not being able to read people. The Rat had been impossible to read.

So he asked, "What are you thinking, Grissom?"

Grissom blinked, obviously caught off guard by the question. But then, he slowly smiled, which brought some color back to his ashen features. "That I'm glad you're alright, Greg," he said softly.

Greg beamed. It was nice to have people who didn't lie to him. It was nice to be around people he could trust.

A moment passed. And then, Greg blinked and looked around the room. "You, uh… you guys wouldn't happen to have any Chap Stick on you, would you?"

Catherine immediately launched into action, reaching in her pocket and pulling some out as she handed it to Greg, still looking slightly stunned.

He took it and smiled at her gratefully before applying it to his aching lips. "Knew I could count on you, Cath," he said before handing it back. Taking the Chap Stick had required letting go of Nick's arm and without his support he stumbled but Nick caught him and Greg immediately latched onto him again. "I think I ate one of your friends," he said to Grissom.

Grissom's brow furrowed in confusion. "What are you talking about, Greg?"

"Creepy crawly critters," Greg elaborated, making a gesture with his hand like a spider. "I think I ate one. I thought it was chicken."

Sara stifled a sob and Grissom came out from behind his desk to examine Greg more closely. He took Greg by the chin and looked in his eyes before biting his lip. "Sit down, Greg," he ordered, but his voice was soft and quiet as though speaking harshly would break him. The kind, soothing tones contrasted gravely against the Rat's sharp, oily demands. Still, Greg would have preferred it if Grissom had asked. He did not do so well with orders as they generally came with pain. He did not let go of Nick's arm.

For a moment, it seemed Grissom wondered if Greg had heard him at all. "Greg?"

But in response, Greg just tightened his grip on Nick. "I don't… I don't want to… Can we eat? I'm so hungry."

"Please!" Sara burst out, her voice begging. Grissom and Greg both turned to look at her curiously, but she just gestured back at Greg. "I mean, for God's sake, just get him some food! Look at him, Grissom! My God, he's so skinny…" She trailed off as she got to her feet. "I don't want to talk about it, I don't want to argue anymore, I just want to get some food in him and leave him alone to rest a while."

Greg nodded fervently, his eyes wide and eager as he pointed at Sara. "I like her, she talks smart."

"He's drunk right now anyway, Gil, it's not like we're going to get anything rational out of him," Catherine put in, her voice tender.

"Not _drunk_," Greg insisted. "Tired." It was clear nobody believed him. Greg barely believed himself. The room was spinning and things seemed to be happening so fast. "And hungry. I'm so damn hungry, guys."

"OK," Nick said, putting a hand over the one that had latched onto his arm. "OK, Greg, we'll get you some food."

"I can't pay you back right now, Nick," Greg said, suddenly feeling very guilty for being broke.

Nick smiled at him reassuringly. "Don't you worry about it. And don't you worry about that cab either, OK? We're just glad to… to see you again."

It was clear that Nick wanted desperately to ask where Greg had been these last nine weeks, but he restrained himself. He knew, as did everyone else in that room, that an explanation would have to wait until Greg was feeling better.

Still, there was one question he had to ask. "Am I going to be needing to take you to a hospital? You look anemic."

"No," Greg said adamantly. "No hospitals. White shit scares the hell out of me."

Nick didn't even attempt to decipher this gibberish as he pulled Greg out of Grissom's office. Walking was made difficult by the fact that it seemed Greg had decided that Nick's arm belonged to him and refused to let go even as they walked down the hall, followed by a small entourage consisting of Sara, Catherine, Grissom and Warrick.

Sara caught up to them and walked next to Greg on the side that wasn't attached to Nick, her eyes running up and down running a quick amateur diagnostic on his physical state. "He's limping, Nick, why is he limping?"

"Why are you talking about him like he can't hear you?" Nick retorted.

Sara seemed stunned by the question, which was futile anyway as for all intents and purposes, Greg _couldn't_ hear Sara. He wasn't going to answer any of her questions about his state anyways. At least not until after he had a big juicy steak. He didn't care if Sara cringed as he swallowed it whole. He tolerated the stench of her veggie wraps, she could deal with him wolfing down a steak.

Nevertheless, he had to make sure that she knew he was willing to disregard her picky eating habits. "I just want to warn you," he said. "There will be meat. Lots of meat."

But she smiled warmly at him and squeezed his hand. Greg tried not to wince. "You can have all the meat you want," she said. But then her smile faded as her fingers probed his hand. She lifted it up and frowned at the scorch marks around his ring finger. "What's this?"

"Electricity is a funny thing," Greg replied enigmatically.

Sara looked at him accusingly. "In English that means…"

"That I'll tell you later," Greg said.

Soon enough, Greg found they were standing outside of Nick's car. "Where do you want to go, Greggo?" Nick asked.

Greg smiled at the nickname. "Anywhere that gets me my food fast. That's not to say I want fast food, I just want food fast. And meat. There has to be meat. With a salad bar for Sara, you know. I'm not _that_ mean."

Nick nodded. "I know the perfect place," he said. He looked at the others, who were heading to their respective cars. "You guys, follow me."

"Good," Greg said.

Nick hesitated. For a moment, Greg wondered why Nick didn't just climb into the car. "Uh… Greg?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm, uh… gonna need my arm back," Nick said.

"Oh," Greg said, letting go instantly. "Yeah, of course." His support gone, he stumbled backwards and tripped, but fell into Sara who caught him before he hit the ground.

"Easy there, tiger," she said lightly as she pulled him to his feet again.

He turned around and smiled slyly, waving a finger at her with one hand and brandishing the bottle of port in the other. "I'm never afraid of falling when you're around, Sara," he said. "I know you always have my back."

She grinned, but a tear escaped her eye and Greg's smile faded. He reached out and wiped it away.

"Don't cry," he pleaded. "Please. Because if you cry, I'll cry, and this is one of the best days I've had in two months."

"I can't help it," she said with a laugh, obviously embarrassed. "I'm just…"

"No tears for Sara," Greg insisted, then looked at the bottle and smirked. "I know just the thing to cheer you up."

"Oh, and what's that?" Sara asked, playing along.

Greg pushed the bottle into her hand. "Wine!"

She laughed and looked at it before taking a long swig. "Damn, that's good port."

"Are we leaving or what?" Nick asked out the car window. "Sara, don't you drink and drive girl, get your ass in here too."

Sara laughed and she and Greg both climbed into the car and sped out of the parking lot.


	13. Breakfast

_**Author's Note:**_ Congratulations! This is my longest chapter to date in this story, so enjoy. I've been doing some editing of the later chapters I have that not even Kegel knows about as I haven't alerted her to my plan yet. Also, I've been babysitting a three-year-old from 8-430 every day for the past week, so not much writing time unless she's napping. So I'm not updating daily (if you haven't noticed by now) but I am trying to at least make it every other day, with no more than a three day wait. I'm kind of neurotic about being prompt, and it's funny because I still feel bad for leaving Queen of Spades hanging for a week and a half. As of yet, I... don't really have an ending planned, but never fear. All that happens when I don't have an ending planned is it just ends up being longer than I'd intended. It happened with Collateral Damage and it's happening with this story. I know the direction I'm driving, and the points I want to make, and the issues I want to address, I just don't know how to do that all in the length I intended this story to be (ten chapters-- HA!). So, just hold tight. You're in for a wild ride.

And to cause.A.scene: I smiled at your review because I was just going over this chapter and I found it to be rather prophetic.

Glad you're all enjoying the ride. Hang on and I promise I'll get you home safely.

* * *

Nick took them all to a 24-hour all-you-can-eat buffet and Greg felt like he had just climbed up the stairway to heaven. He loaded up his plate a mile high and devoured it as quick as possible. At first, the others could do nothing but stare at him open-mouthed. 

"Slow down, Greg, you'll choke!" Catherine said.

"Or get sick," Warrick pointed out.

"Or make _me_ sick," Nick added.

Sara just watched him in her seat and didn't say a word as he finished off his mound of mashed potatoes. He looked up and caught her eye, pausing with the fork in front of his open mouth. She stared at him a moment before looking away. Greg looked back at his food before shrugging it off and putting the fork in his mouth, moving on to his turkey breast.

He spoke with his mouth full, making Catherine wince. "You guys have absolutely no idea how amazing this tastes."

"Close your mouth, Greg," Catherine said, reminding Greg of his mother.

He stopped eating for a moment as he remembered his mother. He knew he should call her, but the last thing he wanted was more people fawning over him. October 31st was her anniversary. He'd call her then, after he'd gotten some rest in his own bed. That's all he wanted. A good night's sleep in his own bed.

"Grissom, do you want some salad?" Sara offered.

Grissom seemed surprised at the question, as well he should have been. He was just about to eat a tomato when she asked and looked down at the bowl of salad in front of him.

"Uh…"

"Come with me to get some salad," Sara said, getting up and grabbing Grissom's elbow forcing him to his feet.

The others watched them go quizzically until Warrick said, "Whatever happened to going to the ladies room to talk?"

"Oh no," Catherine said, taking a bite of her fried chicken. "The ladies room means girl talk. Sara doesn't do girl talk. She does Grissom talk. And Grissom talk happens around the salad bar."

"I guess that means you're off the hook," Nick joked.

But Catherine just raised her eyebrows twice and grinned before taking another bite of her chicken.  
Greg, on the other hand, watched Sara and Grissom intently over by the salad bar as they were obviously having a very heated, albeit subdued discussion. Every now and then, Sara would gesture at the table, and Grissom just stood there looking pensive as he nodded, putting her arms down and saying things every so often.

Greg looked down at his empty plate. "Excuse me, I'm going to go get some more," he said, sliding out of the booth.

"Greg, you've had such huge portions already," Nick said. "Are you sure you—"

"Yeah, my stomach is like a bottomless pit, man," Greg said with a smile. He went over to the dessert bar and took a clean plate, trying to keep a low profile as he came within earshot of Sara and Grissom. They seemed not to notice him, and Greg was glad for that as he listened to them argue behind him, serving himself some apple pie to look busy more than anything else.

"… hospital or something, not _here_."

"Nick asked if he wanted to go and he doesn't. We can't take him against his will, Sara."

"We can and we should. Grissom, he looks like shit. And we're just going to sit there and pretend like he wasn't _gone_ for almost ten weeks?"

"I know that, Sara, but I think that normalcy is the best thing for him right now. With his sudden reappearance, I don't think any of us know exactly how we're supposed to react."

"So what, we just sit in denial and laugh with him? He was gone for _sixty-eight days_, Grissom!"

"Do you have it down to the hour, too?" Grissom said with just a hint of sarcasm.

"I would have if I knew the hour he disappeared," Sara retorted in a low hiss. "As it is, we didn't even know he was gone until four _hours_ after he failed to show up for shift."

There was a pause a moment, and then Sara sighed. When she spoke again, her voice trembled with unshed tears. "I can't just… I mean… It's just been so hard, these last few months, not knowing if he went away of his own free will or if there was foul play, and now that he's here, now that we have the answers we've been looking for, _no one_ wants to _ask_ him. _I_ don't even want to ask him!"

"And what if he doesn't want to tell us, Sara, did you think about that?" Grissom asked softly. After taking a cookie, Greg walked around the dessert bar to where the ice cream and Jello was, watching Grissom and Sara intently through the sneeze-guard.

"I… I mean, why wouldn't he tell us?" Sara was beginning to waver. "He would want us to know, wouldn't he? He'd want to reassure us that he was OK, right? That he wasn't kidnapped or abused in anyway? I mean, he'd want to make sure that we understood that… even if it was some top secret government thing, that he wasn't…"

"You really think he's been OK these last two months?" Grissom asked quietly, though the tone in her voice answered that question already. "You said it yourself, Sara. He looks terrible. Wherever he was, it wasn't a vacation, and he's probably reluctant to recount it for a variety of reasons. Just let him alone, Sara. You told us that, too, and you were right. The best thing we can do for him right now is feed him and make sure he gets home safely and into bed."

"I'd rather we checked him into a hospital bed," Sara muttered. "_They_ have security. If we take him home, I'm going to spend all night outside his door making sure no bastard tries to fuck with him."

"Well that's your choice," Grissom said.

"At least it's one thing I still have control over," Sara said. She paused, then, "Grissom, I'm… sorry. For being such a bitch to you lately, saying that you didn't care—"

"Hush," Grissom said. Greg glanced over his shoulder and saw him tenderly rubbing her arm. "No apologies. You were scared and so was I. We reacted in different ways."

"_Very_ different ways," Sara said with a small laugh.

"Come on, they'll wonder why getting salad is taking so long," Grissom said.

Greg shoved the Jello spoon back in the bowl with a clatter, and made Grissom and Sara turn to look in his direction. He fell to the ground behind the bar and waited. An old lady came by for some ice cream and cast him a curious glance. He held a finger to his lips and she smiled, then looked up and waved towards the salad bar. She began to serve herself some ice cream and Greg took deep breaths.

"Your friends are gone," the woman whispered with a smile as she put the ice cream spoon away. She wasn't looking at Greg, but it was obvious who she was talking to.

Greg slowly peeked over the edge of the bar to see Grissom and Sara walking back to the table. He rose to his feet. "Thanks," he said.

"If you don't mind me asking," the lady said curiously. "What are you hiding from?"

Greg ran a hand through his hair and picked up his plate, which he had abandoned by the Jello. "So many things…" he said with a sigh.

"OK, son," the lady said, walking away with her cane and her ice cream. "I helped you hide for now. But don't hide forever."

Greg watched her leave. The advice was simple, and obvious, and yet it was very much appreciated. Greg knew he would have to get used to the kindness of strangers again.

He headed back to the table and sat down next to Sara. He began eating immediately and ignored the fact that the conversation stopped upon his reappearance. Greg focused on the food, savoring the taste of the pie and ice cream as he allowed it to bring a smile to his lips. He didn't mind that his friends weren't speaking. He didn't even mind the fact that he was the center of attention. So long as they weren't asking him any questions, they could stare at him all the hell they wanted.

He knew from the conversation he'd overheard that Sara was going to be a problem later. It would take ample convincing to make her go home. He understood how she felt, but he didn't want to deal with other people. He could barely deal with himself. He had so many thoughts to sort through. But he pushed all of them to the back of his mind. Philosophy was for people with nothing better to do. Thoughts were a luxury that Greg could not afford at the moment. He had so many things to do…

When he had finally licked his bowl clean, his stomach felt as if he might burst and the bandages he wore under his shirt began to itch. He looked up at the others, who after minutes of just watching him in silence suddenly all turned away and a low hum of conversation began.

"How's Lindsey doing?" Warrick asked in an attempt to distract them all from the elephant in the room.

"Oh," Catherine said, playing along. "Oh, she's great, uh… She's thinking of trying out for the school play this year."

"You know, I was in a play once," Nick said.

Warrick cocked an eyebrow. "Was this between football and baseball seasons?"

Nick hit him. "Nah, man, I played Dogberry."

Warrick blinked at him, but Grissom smiled. "But, masters, remember that I am an ass; though it be not written down, yet forget not that I am an ass."

"That's the one," Nick replied. He cleared his throat and then, with a theatrical flare, said, "And Master, sir, do not forget to specify, when time and place shall assert, that I am an ass!"

Warrick hit him. "You _are_ an ass."

"I'm impressed, Nicky," Catherine said. "I thought Grissom was the only one who could quote Shakespeare off the top of his head."

"An ass who can't _act_," Warrick added, to his previous statement.

"I can too act!" Nick said defensively.

"If that little display proved anything, it's that you're a washed up old Shakespeare actor who probably didn't know what he was saying half the time," Warrick said.

"I know I was saying that I'm an ass," Nick retorted.

"That's because it was the only line you could _relate_ to," Warrick replied with a smirk.

Greg watched this friendly quibble with mild interest as a smile tugged at his lips. The places conversations will go when undirected… And yet, he knew that beyond this banter lay a deeper, darker issue that none of them were willing to address at the moment, least of all him.

The only one who seemed unwilling to pretend was Sara who sat quietly between Greg and Catherine stirring her tea and watching the teabag get tangled around her spoon. Her fingers of her left hand drummed quietly on the table by her saucer. The soft tinkling of the spoon against the porcelain and the quiet and steady rhythm of her fingers soothed Greg, like a mother's lullaby after a nightmare.

Quietly, and unnoticed to the others who were still arguing about Nick's acting skills, Greg reached out to her drumming hand with his own and enveloped it, making her stop. He watched her hand as her palm turned to greet him, her delicate fingers entwining with his pale bony ones. He watched their joined hands for a long time before he realized that the spoon in the teacup had stopped tinkling and he followed her arm up to her shoulder and finally to her face where their eyes met.

Her deep brown orbs spoke volumes, and every word was one Greg didn't want to hear, and yet he found he couldn't tear his gaze away from her. He had no idea what she saw in him, but in her he felt he almost saw his own reflection of something dark and inhuman.

_So,_ Greg thought, _the night has gotten to her too._

Sara suddenly broke eye contact as she pushed her tea away, drawing everyone's attention. She looked at them all in turn, her mouth slightly open. "I uh… I have to go." She looked at Greg. "Excuse me, Greg."

Greg was stunned a moment, but shook it off and got up so Sara could leave. After she got out she hesitated a moment when their eyes met again and then swiftly moved out of the way so he could sit back down again. She looked at the others, then at her watch.

"So… I'm sorry I can't finish out my shift, Grissom, but I, uh… I…"

Grissom nodded. "OK," he said simply, giving her permission to leave without making an excuse.

She smiled gratefully at him, then turned to Greg and squeezed his left shoulder. Greg was glad it wasn't his right one so he didn't wince. "It's good to have you back, Greg," she told him quietly, her voice fighting her silent emotions. She forced her grin to stay in place and Greg saw her swallow before she turned and headed for the door. He twisted in his seat as he watched her leave.

He noticed that everyone was quiet again. Now it began to bother him. He turned around and gave them all a very scathing _do-you-mind-not-staring-at-me?_ look. They immediately looked at each other and tried to resuscitate the long-dead conversation. All of a sudden, Greg didn't feel very well and stood up himself, closing his eyes. His headache still hadn't abandoned him, much to his irritation.

"I think I'm going to go, too," he told them.

He had never seen anyone move as fast as Grissom, who was immediately on his feet and in front of Greg. "I'll drive you home."

"Don't bother," Greg said with a smile. "I'll call a cab."

"You don't have any money," Nick reminded him.

"Oh yeah…" Money. That really came in handy in this world. "Whatever, I'll go on the bus or something. Anyone have any spare change?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Greg," Catherine said, sliding across the booth herself. "Look, one of us is going to take you home, you can't fight that."

Greg looked up out the window and saw Sara on the sidewalk, her arms wrapped around herself to fight the cold. A stream of smoke issued from her lips as she exhaled and she held something in her right hand. His lips moved absently, his mind already out of the restaurant.

"Don't worry, I think I found a ride…" he said, and then moved for the door before they could stop him.

It really _was_ freezing outside and Greg found himself jogging over to Sara and wishing he had something better than his thin button down shirt. "Sara!"

She turned and looked surprised to see him, but then shook her head. "No, Greg, I can't talk to you right now."

He slowed down as he caught up to her and tried to catch his breath. It had only been a few feet, but it felt like miles he had run just to see her. He bent over and rested his hands on his knees as he recovered.

A tender hand rested on his back. "Greg…?"

He looked up at her and beamed. "Sorry, I'm exhausted," he told her. "It's been a long sixty-eight days."

She smiled wanly at him as he straightened up. "For me, too."

He nodded, still breathing heavily as he caught his breath. "You're smoking," he noted, nodding at the hand that held her cigarette.

She sighed and rolled her eyes before defiantly taking another drag off her cigarette. "I started again after… Two months ago."

"Uh huh," Greg said, nodding. "And is this just a social thing or do you find you go through a pack a day?"

"Stress does this to me sometimes," she admitted. "I kicked it once, I can do it again."

"You never really quit smoking," Greg said. "You just have year-long breaks between cigarettes."

"Is that what your health teacher told you?" Sara said snidely, taking another drag.

Greg closed his eyes and smiled. "I deserved that," he said. "I know smokers don't like to be lectured to."

But Sara sighed out the smoke and looked up, shaking her head. "No, Greg, you didn't deserve that," she said. She looked at him with deep brown eyes. "What do you want from me, anyway?"

"I want to know why you're so angry all of a sudden," Greg said honestly.

She smiled. "It's not so sudden. You haven't seen me for two months. How would you know what's 'sudden?'"

Greg didn't know if she'd meant to or not, but he detected a hint of accusation in her tone. "You want to know where I've been," he said flatly.

She put out her cigarette on a nearby phone pole and tossed it in the trash, stamping her foot. "Damn _right_ I want to know where you've been, Greg, we _all_ do, they're just too afraid to _ask_."

"So why didn't _you_ ask?" Greg inquired.

She opened her mouth to retort but found she was speechless. She closed it and looked away from him, rubbing her arms to warm them, or out of nervous habit, Greg couldn't tell which. "I didn't… I don't know."

"Do you really want to know?" Greg asked.

She tossed her head back in a bark of morose laughter. "No, Greg. No, I have no interest in where one of my best friends has been for the last two months, when he left us without a goodbye other than a Post-It note. My mind fills in the blanks quite nicely with some wonderfully gruesome fantasies of what's been happening to you. I'm content with my nightmares telling me what you've been up to, I don't need the truth."

"Sarcasm is a bad color on you," Greg deadpanned.

Sara shrugged and pushed her hair back from her face. "Of course I want to know, Greg," she whispered. "Of _course_ I want to know because… Because whatever you tell me, it can't be worse than the fates I've thought up for you in my head. It just can't be."

"And what if it is?" Greg asked quietly. "What if I don't tell you what you want to hear, Sara? In all your imaginings, you couldn't _possibly_ have dreamed of the things I went through. And I don't want to go through it again by recounting it. I don't want to drag you and the others through it, wincing and gagging at every gruesome detail, fawning over me and telling me I was brave or strong or whatever, because I was neither of those things, Sara, and the lest thing I need are my friends treating me like I'm made of glass because of a stupid little thing that I had to suffer through. What happened to me is my problem, and I dealt with it and it's over, and I promised myself I would never look back."

He was trembling in the cold by the end of his speech, and he must have looked terrible because Sara smiled at him fondly and cupped his cheek in her hand, shaking her head at him sadly. "Oh Greg…" she whispered. "You look _so_ awful."

"You don't look too good yourself," Greg said glibly. "Your hair looks terrible."

She let out a quiet laugh as she pushed his scraggly hair away from his eyes. "You may be right. You may be right that what happened to you is… worse than I imagined, but… Even so, Greg, it's not just _your problem._ It's ours, too. We need closure just as much as you. And I can guess just by your appearance that wherever you've been it wasn't… It wasn't easy on you. You're so pale, Greg, and your eyes are so red and swollen… wrinkles at your mouth…" And then, she frowned. "Greg, open your mouth."

He blinked. "What?"

But the hand on his cheek moved to his chin and he obliged. She took out her cell phone for light and held it in front of his lips. The hand on his chin traveled down his neck and she probed his throat with two fingers as though searching for something. She closed his mouth and held the cell phone up by his eyes. "Roll your eyes up for me."

"What are you doing?" Greg asked.

"Just do it," Sara ordered, and he obeyed as she shined the bright light in his eye, reminding him of the clinic and he immediately winced and shut his eyes, pushing her away.

"No, Sara, don't do that!" he half-yelled. "Don't tell me what to do without telling me what you're doing and don't poke your fingers into my neck and don't shine that fucking thing in my eye!"

She looked hurt at his sudden outburst but nodded and tried to explain herself. "Greg, we need to get you to a hospital."

"What?" Greg said. "No— why?"

"How do you feel?" she asked instead.

"Like shit, but you knew that," he snapped. "I don't need a hospital."

"Yes, you do," Sara said, grabbing him by the wrist and pulling him over toward the restaurant.

But he pulled his wrist out of her grip and was ready to slap her. "Sara, get the fuck off me!" he yelled, surprising her. He wavered and stumbled backwards. His stomach churned and he groaned.

"Feeling nauseous?" she said, sounding a little smug.

Greg glared at her as he clutched his stomach. "What, do I have cancer?"

"You're severely malnourished," Sara informed him.

"No shit," he snapped.

"You shouldn't have wolfed down all that food…" Sara said, shaking her head in disapproval. "Your body isn't used to it."

"I don't need a hospital," Greg insisted.

"Your body's lacking several vital minerals, Greg," Sara said sternly. "A doctor will know—"

"So I'm lacking minerals, I just _ate_ didn't I?" Greg hissed. "That's minerals. And I'll go home, take some vitamins or whatever, I'll be _fine_."

"I'm not sure _what_ minerals you're lacking," Sara said.

"_All_ of them!" Greg exclaimed. "I was only nearly starved to death for fuck's sake!"

The stunned look on Sara's face was what made Greg really realize what he had just said. His chest rose and fell as he gasped for air.

"You were… what?"

Greg rolled his eyes and folded his arms, annoyed. "Isn't it obvious?" he said. "I'm malnourished, I came in hungry as a bear, and you, the brilliant CSI, couldn't deduct that I've been going without food?"

She looked away. "I-I did, but to hear you say it in such…"

"Cold terms?" Greg supplied. "Get used to it. Life is cold."

She watched him in silence a moment, not knowing what to say, and he just watched her back. The night came like a sickness and infected him with cold. A veil of blackness enveloped her, and he was suddenly frightened. She morphed into something dark and inhuman. Something that had promised Greg that he would never have to see it again. And yet, there it was.

"Greg…" it said trying to approach him, but he held up his hands.

"No!" he yelled, backing away. "Stay the hell away from me. I'm not going back there. You can't take me back there."

"I don't want to take you back there," it said. "I just want to help you!"

But Greg started laughing as he stared at it with bulging eyes. "Help me? _Help_ me? You call what you do _helping_ people?"

An expression of horror bored itself deep into its eyes. "Greg, what's wrong?"

Greg was shaking his head. "If you come near me again, I swear…"

But come near him it did, and quickly, grabbing his wrists as he struggled against it. "Greg!"

"Get away from me!" Greg yelled as he resisted its grip, tears beginning to streak down his face. "No! I trusted you, _he_ trusted you, I thought you were his _friend_, why are you doing this, Wesley, why the _fuck_ are you doing this to me?"

He began to sob as he fell to his knees and the coldness seeped out of his body and into the ground. All of a sudden, he was enveloped in warmth as he wept bitter tears, angry and hysterical, confused and afraid. He balled his hands into fists and tried to push the warmth away. You get too close to the sun, you get burned, Greg had learned that the hard way.

But then, she whispered in his ear, and all the horror melted away. "You're safe, Greg. You're with me."

Where her voice had come from, Greg wasn't sure, but instead of fighting the warmth, he embraced it. "Sara…?"

"That's right," she whispered, her voice shaking. "It's just me. No monsters here, Greg. It's just you and me."

He stopped crying and took shaking breaths as he closed his eyes and realized it was her arms that held him, her warmth that soothed him, and her words that brought him back to reality.

"There's nothing pretty about what happened to me," he whispered, shaking in her embrace. "It's an… ugly story…"

"Then tell it to me," she begged, holding him tighter. "Ugliness and all, just tell it to me."

He pulled away from her and held her shoulders at arms-length as he looked at her for a long time with terrified eyes. He didn't want to go through it again. He didn't want to tell them. If he could help it, he would have never told them. But he knew that it wasn't fair to them. They wanted to know. And Sara was right. They needed closure too. And if he didn't tell them, the night would stay inside and consume him, striking out at him even in the light of day, and he would be petrified. He needed to purge himself of Wesley's sins.

"OK," he said finally, his voice shaking as he shivered in the cold. He nodded. "OK, I'll tell you," he said. He wiped his eyes on his shirt and tried to smile at her. "But… tomorrow. I'll tell you all tomorrow, I'm just too tired now. I just want to sleep."

Sara smiled and rose to her feet, pulling Greg up with her. She took off her coat and handed it to him. "OK," she said. "I'll have Nick drive you home."

He stared at her coat for a minute curiously.

"Well aren't you cold?" she asked.

"Freezing," he muttered with a sniff, still analyzing the coat.

"Then why don't you put it on?" she asked.

He smirked at her. "You think I'm gonna be caught dead in a girl's coat?"

And through it all, she had to laugh. The mere fact that Greg could still joke with her in such dark situations already reassured her immensely.


	14. Night Terrors

_**Author's Note:**_ A note to Harry Potter fans about spoilers (none included in this note): My mother and I are savoring the seventh book by taking turns reading it aloud to each other, which means it's going slowly so I urge you to please keep your spoilers to yourself in your reviews. I know that Harry Potter really shouldn't enter into reviews for a CSI fan fiction, but one can never be too careful on the internet these days.

As for the story itself... I think I'm close to concluding it. I also do believe that the next chapter is the one you've all been waiting for. So I have nothing to say at this juncture except enjoy and keep the thoughtful reviews coming because you guys are awesomely inspiring.

* * *

The ride back to Greg's apartment was a quiet one. Having left her car at the lab, Sara had asked if she could tag along. Nick had asked Greg if he objected, but Greg hadn't been paying attention. And now, with Sara in the passenger's seat, he stretched out in the back of Nick's car with his head leaning against the window as he watched the Las Vegas city lights pass him by. 

He surprised everyone, but most of all himself, when he decided to break the silence. "It was just so dark, you know? I… I missed the lights. These lights."

He heard Sara shift uncomfortably in the front seat, but neither she nor Nick said a word or probed him to speak further.

He was glad for their discretion. "So what have you guys been up to lately anyway?"

This elicited no response from his company and Greg sat up and tried to see Nick's face. What he could see of Nick was inscrutable, and he couldn't see Sara at all, sitting right behind her. "Come on. It's been over two months. You're not telling me nothing's been going on with you guys."

"All that's been going on with us revolves around you," Sara whispered.

Greg laughed. "That can't be right. I'm not the center of the universe. Other things must have been going on. Take any interesting cases lately?"

"One guy tried to convince us he was killed by a prostitute," Nick said conversationally.

"What?"

A faint smile graced Nick's lips. "He said she poisoned him and when he woke up he was dead."

"Paranoid schizophrenic," Sara said. "The prostitute was his wife and the 'poison' was the lithium she was trying to give him, so he stabbed her in the neck and got confused, thinking he was the dead one. It wasn't so much interesting as it was sad."

The uneasy silence invaded the room again, and this time Greg was disinclined to break it. He leaned his head against the window again, his cheek pressing up against the cold glass.

Finally, Greg spoke again. "Did you ever think that maybe the crazy people are the ones who see the world like it really is and it's the rest of us who are delusional?"

"No," Sara said, quickly and simply.

That shot down another attempt to start a normal conversation.

"Yes."

Greg looked over at Nick, who said the single syllable and nothing more. A smile tugged at Greg's lips. It was nice to know that someone else thought about those things.

Nick pulled up outside of Greg's apartment and Greg climbed out of the car, looking up at the tall building that loomed over him. He heard the door slam and looked over his shoulder at Sara, who stood next to him and looked at his apartment too.

"I took the liberty of paying your rent last month," she said. "Your lease was up."

Greg sighed. "I'll pay you back…"

"You already have by showing up. I'm just glad you're back, so I didn't waste my money."

He frowned at her. "Sara…"

"Can I stay over?"

He smirked at her. "Were this any other day, Sara Sidle, those words coming from your lips would have issued an immediate affirmative response, however… Not tonight."

"I'm really quiet," she assured him. "I can take the couch."

"Oh no," Greg said, quite serious. "If you were staying over, you'd take the bed, I just couldn't guarantee that I wouldn't take the bed too. But the fact of the matter is, you're not staying over, so therefore I don't have to worry about the temptation."

"Do you always do that?" Sara asked.

"Do what?"

"Hide behind your jokes."

Greg was too tired to argue with her and he rubbed his eyes. "I don't want to argue," he said.

"Good," she said. "Neither do I." She folded her arms, standing firm.

He sighed. "There's no way I can convince you to go away, is there?"

"Not without a long argument," she said.

She knew his weakness. "Ugh, fine," he said, frustrated. He looked over Sara's shoulder at Nick in the driver's seat. "How about you, do you wanna join the slumber party?"

"I wouldn't want to interrupt what I'm sure will be an interesting evening," Nick said with a tired smirk.

Greg let out another frustrated growl before turning to his apartment and walking inside. Sara turned around and said goodbye to Nick before jogging after Greg before he closed the door on her.

"You know where it is, I'm assuming," Greg said, climbing the stairs.

"I've only been there fifty times in the past ten weeks," she replied.

"Impressive," he muttered. "I guess I don't have to warn you it's a mess."

"I may have cleaned up a bit…" Sara admitted.

Greg rounded the railing on the stairwell and walked to his door, fishing out his keys. She caught up to him as he opened the door and stepped inside.

His apartment held that warm, musty smell of a room that hadn't been lived in for a long while and the dust had begun to settle. "You couldn't have maybe opened a window while you were at it?" he asked, making his way to his kitchenette in the corner. A smile twitched at his lips. "You did the dishes."

"You had things living on them," Sara said. "Of course I did the dishes."

He looked around his apartment and took a deep breath. "Home sweet home."

"You just go get some sleep," Sara told him. "I can handle myself just fine out here."

"Let me grab you a blanket or something…" Greg muttered, heading in the direction of his room.

"No," Sara said. "Really, I'll be OK."

Greg shrugged and stopped, heading back for the kitchen. "Well, if you say so," he said, too exhausted to play the good host. He wasn't that enthusiastic to make her comfortable. She had invited herself after all. He walked to the fridge and opened it up, exploring its contents. He found a carton of milk, opened it up and smelled it before recoiling in disgust. He tossed it in the trash and looked for something else.

Sara watched him in a strange silence. Greg couldn't tell if it was awkward or not. He had been away from social interactions for far too long. He looked over his shoulder at her. "Do you want anything?" She just pursed her lips and shook her head. He shrugged and turned back to the fridge before he found a bottle of water and took it out, pouring himself a glass. Sara was so quiet, he almost forgot she was even there. He sighed and looked up at his ceiling as he started unbuttoning his shirt and shrugged it off his shoulders. He began to unbutton his jeans.

"Oh…" Sara began, making him turn to look at her with raised eyebrows. She averted her eyes and put a hand over them. He smiled.

"Don't worry about it," he said. "Modesty isn't something I'm used to anymore."

But still, she didn't look at him as he slung his shirt over the back of a chair. "Yeah, well I am used to it," she said.

Greg stopped. He looked at her a moment and then zipped up his jeans again. "Sorry," he muttered. "I've… kind of forgotten how to behave around normal people."

She looked at him again and smiled before her expression changed and she inhaled sharply. "Greg!" she said, walking over to him.

He turned to her confused and she fingered the bandages wrapped around his chest before looking up at him again. "Oh," he said. "Don't worry about that." He turned away from her then and headed back to the fridge. He closed his eyes and stopped when he heard her gasp again.

"Greg," she said sternly, but he didn't turn around. "Is that the same mark on you that we—"

"I'm going to bed," Greg said suddenly. He turned on his heal and walked right past her down the hall, leaving Sara to do nothing but watch him.

"I'll, uh… be right out here if you need anything," Sara called after him.

"I won't," he assured her without looking back.

He didn't know it at the time, but it was a lie.

* * *

He wove in and out of consciousness as his head lolled on his shoulders. He wasn't sure what was going on. It was hot. Scorching. Someone needed to turn down the heat. The migraine pounded in his ears like war drums announcing his imminent and painful demise. Snippets of conversation drifted in one ear and out the other. 

"… yet, I want to see how long this dream will last… the sun on, it drives the fever deeper… no… fool, he's too delirious to feel that…"

But he wasn't too delirious. A sharp pain shot up his arm and ran from his shoulder to his finger tips.

"… leave the thumb and forefinger… won't need the… yes, but wait until he's conscious again…"

What was the matter with him? The wine. It must have been in the wine. He should never have given any of it to Sara, the nightmares she would be having…

And then he blinked, and found himself in the center of a dozen mirrors all focused on him, and Greg realized that he had never given Sara the wine after all. Because Sara had never existed in the first place.

Wesley— the Rat— stood smugly before him wearing his pinstriped suit as he folded his arms and sneered at Greg complacently. "Ah, Greg, finally awake I see."

"What's… I mean… hot…"

"Yes, it is quite hot, but most of that would be the fever," the Rat said casually. "You've been put into a drug-induced hallucinogenic state. Did you enjoy your dream?"

"Sara… Griss… Nick…"

"All names I heard you murmur at one point or another," said the Rat. "You have quite an active imagination, Greg, I must say."

"Wesley…"

The Rat chuckled. "Yes, I daresay that was the most amusing idea of all, to think I was a friend of your father's… Such conspiracy theories exist in your head, my boy!"

Greg couldn't tell what was real anymore. "What happened… When did I…?"

"You thought you got away after you attacked one of our best agents," the Rat hissed, suddenly angry. "You thought you were being so clever. Until I lured you into my office. Until I gave you the wine."

The wine… Greg knew it was the wine. He began to sob, his dream shattered into a million pieces right before his eyes. He had been so close. He had heard their voices again, reveled in their laughter, felt their warm touch. He had clung to Nick's arm. He had let Sara hold him as he broke down. Had it all just been one amazing hallucination?

He was sick of it all. He was tired of persevering without any reason to. He had nothing left to live for. His dignity was gone, and his friends had abandoned him.

As if to reinforce his despair, the Rat said, "Your friends aren't looking for you, Greg. They don't even miss you. You made up excuses in your head for why they never searched for you when the truth is that they found your note, oh yes, I saw them find it. But they just didn't care."

Greg let out another sob. "Stop it."

"Only you have the power to make it stop, boy," the Rat said. He nodded at Chuck, who stepped out from behind Greg and grinned maliciously. "Would you care to do the honors?"

"Certainly," Chuck growled and he grabbed Greg's arm, forcing it forward as he took out a knife. "Hold still," Chuck said to Greg. "This may hurt a little."

Greg was barely aware of what was about to happen until half a second after the blade made contact with his skin and sawed off his little finger. Greg tossed his head back and roared at the excruciating agony that rocked him into a state of panic, sending chills throughout his body as his mind tried to cope with the copious amounts of pain that the nerves at the end of his damage hand were radiating. Greg blinked through his tears and saw his finger rolling on the floor like a forgotten log.

And then, Chuck raised the knife again.

"No!" Greg shouted, but down it came on his ring finger, slicing off his father's ring and Greg's screams became hysterical, the blood spilling down his arm as he saw two stumps at the end of his left hand. He was shivering madly now, the anguish too much for his mind to bear and threatened to retreat into unconsciousness.

He was through with resisting. He was through with surviving for survival's own sake. His life had ended long ago, and this was hell now. Only he had the power to find peace again.

"Wait!" Greg choked as the knife rose again in the air and Chuck froze. Both the Rat and Chuck trained their eyes on Greg, expectantly.

"Well?" the Rat asked, his voice as oily and evil as it ever was.

Greg's breaths were shuddering and shallow. "I… I don't know my name…" he whispered. "I've forgotten who I am."

A smile curled at the Rat's lips as he looked at Chuck. "And you think that by now, boy, we really care about your name?"

"What?" Greg breathed, astonished.

He barely had time to gather his wits before the knife came down for a third time…

_"GREG!"_

He roared in agony, unable to take it. "No, please… no more, I give up, take whatever you want from me, just kill me you bastards…"

"But we're having so much fun!" the Rat said with cocked eyebrows. "Why on earth would we kill you when it's just beginning to get good?" he looked at Chuck. "Take his other hand."

_"Greg, stop it!"_

"No…" Greg whispered, the Rat and Chuck beginning to grow fuzzy. "Why are you doing this, Wesley?"

"I thought I told you," the Rat hissed. "I know no one by that name."

_"Greg, wake up! Please, wake up now!" _

The Rat put a hand to his ear as though trying to hear something. "Do you hear those voices, Greg? Those are the angels calling you home. You want to join them, don't you?"

"What do I have to say to get you to _kill me_?" Greg sobbed.

_"Greg, he can't hurt you! You're safe in your room, I promise you!"_

He shivered. Her voice rang in his head loud and clear, and yet he saw the Rat as though he was really standing right in front of him.

"S-S-Sara?"

The Rat tossed his head back and laughed. "Look at that! He thinks he hears his friends calling to him from beyond the grave!" He grinned an evil grin at Greg as his eyes twinkled in the light of the sun. "I like the sound of this… 'Sara.' I think I'll have a look at her. See if she'd be interested in our little program here. I might find a lot of uses for her."

_"Greg, can you hear me? This is a night terror— You have to shake it off. Follow my voice. Can you hear me?"_

He couldn't wake up. Oh _why_ couldn't he wake up???

"You can't wake up because this isn't a dream," the Rat said, answering his thoughts.

Greg was breathing rapidly as his heart pounded in his chest. The room began to spin and there were flashing colors and lights. He was assaulted by sounds and the Rat's maniacal laughter in his ears.

"I'm going to kill them. I'm going to kill them all."

He was still screaming when he realized her arms were around him again. The room was dark and his sheets were drenched in sweat. _His_ sheets. He was home. That was the important thing. He was home. Safe.

He was still rapidly breathing as he trembled in her embrace, inhaling the scent of her strawberry shampoo. "He wouldn't kill me," Greg panted. "He-he-he took my hands and he— but he wouldn't kill me. He said he'd kill you."

He pulled himself away from Sara and looked her in the eye. "You have to get out of here or they'll get you too. They'll get you and— Oh, _God_, Sara, I don't want you to go through what I went through, just thinking about you all alone and scared and… and the things they would do to you, the things he did to that Muslim woman, oh God… I think I'm going to be sick."

And just as he said it, the vomit rose in his throat and he ripped himself out of Sara's grip and turned over the side of his bed, all his fears and insecurities spewing out onto his floor. He rested there a moment, taking deep breaths, his eyes darting around the room as he inhaled the stench from the mess he'd just made.

What was he doing? He had forgotten. It had been there a moment ago. What had he been so afraid of? All he knew was an overwhelming sense of terror. He sat up again and jumped at the shadow sitting on his bed staring at him with large eyes. It took him a moment to recognize her. She was… a friend. She was more than that. She was Sara.

"Greg?" Her voice was a soft coo, like a dove. Her whispers reached out gentle fingers to stroke his heart and chase his fear away. "Are you awake now? Can you hear me?"

Slowly and with his mouth partially agape, Greg nodded. "Wha… what's…"

"It's OK," she murmured quietly. She reached out a hand and clung tightly to his. "It's OK, Greg. I'm here. You're going to be OK."

"What just happened?" Greg asked. "I… I don't understand…"

"Sh…" Sara hushed, pulling Greg into a warm embrace as she stroked his hair. "You're going to be alright now. I'll protect you."

"But I don't… why am I…" He was so scared, and he had no idea why. He had the vaguest idea that someone was trying to hurt Sara. He felt he needed to warn her, but of what he wasn't sure. A part of him felt like he already had warned her.

"I know it's confusing," she whispered. "You're scared and you don't know why. But I'm here, Greg. I'll always be here."

Slowly, Greg nodded as she continued to stroke his hair and reassure him. The fear was slowly subsiding as he melted in her embrace. "O-OK. OK, Sara… I'm OK now."

She pulled away and tried to look into his eyes. "You sure?" she said.

He swallowed and nodded. "Yeah," he said. He looked over his bed and sighed. "I need to clean that up…"

"I'll get it," Sara said, standing up at the foot of the bed so as to avoid the mess.

Greg's protest was a feeble one, yet sincere all the same. "Sara, you're not my maid… I want to clean my own damn house. Besides, it's a little embarrassing…"

"Don't be embarrassed," Sara said as she cocked her head to the side and put a hand on her hip. "You're sick. It's nothing to be ashamed about."

"But I'm _not_ sick," Greg insisted. "I'm just…"

"Scared?" Sara supplied. "Scared and you don't know why."

"How do you know that?" Greg asked curiously.

She smiled wanly. "When I was little, I used to get them too."

"What?"

"Night terrors."

Greg didn't understand. "Is that what just happened to me? I just had a… a nightmare?"

She shook her head. "No, it was more vivid than a nightmare, Greg. Night terrors happen sometimes when there's post traumatic stress. You might want to have someone look into those for you. They tend to be a recurring thing."

"You mean I'm going to be waking up screaming every night?" Greg asked.

"You won't wake up," Sara said. "That's the problem with night terrors. They're incredibly hard to wake a person. Took me twenty minutes to rouse you."

"I'm… so sorry for all this, Sara," Greg whispered. "I didn't… I don't want to involve you in… any of this. It's my problem."

"I thought we agreed that it's _our_ problem," Sara said.

"We never agreed on that," Greg replied. "I agreed you needed closure, and I'll tell you what happened to me. But… all this. Waking me up when I'm having a bad dream, cleaning up after me after I puke all over the floor, dealing with my newfound demons that wreak havoc on my brain… I don't want that. I don't want you dealing with that."

"Believe me, I have no intention of babysitting you every night, Greg," Sara said with a smirk. "So don't get too used to my company. As for the psychological baggage that goes with… whatever it is that happened to you, I'm sure a licensed psychiatrist is more than equipped to deal with it."

Greg pulled his knees up to his chest as he stared down at the sheets. "You have no idea how much I wish I could just pretend that none of this ever happened," he whispered. "I wish I didn't have to tell you, so you never knew about it. Because it's painful, and it's embarrassing, and… And I'm afraid you'll treat me different after you know. I'm afraid that… I don't know. But it's important to me, essential actually, that if and when I tell you that story… You don't change the way you look at me. The way you think of me. I'm still just Greg. I'll always be _just Greg_. And I like that. For better or for worse, I'm _just Greg_. I'm not a hero. I'm not a martyr. I'm not a coward. I'm not weak. I'm just a kid… trying to make… an honest living…" Greg had the most chilling sense of déjà vu. "I just so badly want things to be… normal. For my friends to treat me like I'm… _me_ again. I think I lost a part of myself there, Sara. I want to get it back."

She smiled softly at him. "I know, Greg," she said. "And don't worry. You'll always be that goofy lab rat I somehow molded into a damn good CSI to me."

He grinned at her. "Thanks, Sara."

She stood there a moment then launched into action. "Right. I'm going to go clean that up." He began to protest again, but she cut him off. "No. I insisted on staying over, there has to be something I can do to earn my keep, right? Go to sleep, hon. And I'll be here when you wake up."

He nodded and she made to leave. "Hey, Sara?"

"Hm?" she paused in the doorway.

"You said you got night terrors as a kid… What happened?"

She laughed lightly. "They occur in about fifteen percent of kids naturally," she replied. "They go away with age."

Greg nodded, satisfied with this answer. For a moment, he had been worried. "I guess I'll… see you when I wake up, then."

"Yes," she said with a smile. "I guess you will."


	15. Puzzle Pieces

_**Author's Note:**_ I'm a little sketchy on the puzzle metaphor after talking to Kegel, but am way too lazy to go through and change it. I have a bad feeling this will be about twenty chapters. My goal now is to simply make it shorter than Salam. I hate making my stories drag on forever. In other news, I had an interesting discussion with fvhardy last night/today about how much is really "too much?" I told her to push boundaries, and I'm going to try and take my own advice in some later stories... Also, we came to the mutual conclusion that Greg is Greg because he fights, he chooses not to give up, and he clings to his humor. He chooses to try to keep being himself as much as possible. So there is an instance in this chapter, actually, in which you will see that choice in action. OK, enough of me, read this damn thing.

* * *

They were all staring at him, waiting on the edge of their seats. He lifted his tea to his lips and sipped it. So long as he kept his mouth busy, he didn't have to talk. 

He knew it was impossible, and yet he had hoped that maybe they'd forgotten about it by the next night. When he'd woken up, once again after a restless and yet forgotten nightmare, Sara had been in his kitchen flipping pancakes. In a way, Greg found it was kind of nice, to have her taking care of him. And he hadn't eaten pancakes in… months. She had forced two glasses of milk down his throat, along with what he was sure was an overdose of vitamins that made him wonder if she had any illegal drug connections he should know about. And if she would be able to score him some pot. For medicinal purposes, of course. To help his… recovery.

They had both taken the bus into work together, as neither one had their car handy, and had therefore arrived at the same time. Sara (bless her heart) had tried her hardest to treat Greg the way he'd asked her to: like absolutely nothing had changed. But it was clear that underneath her small talk and forced jokes, something _had_ changed. And that bothered Greg gravely because he missed how she used to be before he had disappeared.

And then they had walked into Grissom's office together. And for some reason, Greg found himself frightened of his old supervisor, who had sat at his desk and scrutinized Greg for a long time before asking if he would be more comfortable talking about it to just him alone, or if he wanted to address the group. Sara might have protested, but Grissom had explained that if it would be easier for Greg to just tell him, he could tell the others in a more discreet fashion.

But Greg had told him that he wasn't filing a report. That he didn't technically _need_ to tell anyone anything, and that all his friends deserved to hear his story from his mouth, as no other mouth could tell it more accurately. "And besides," he had told Grissom, "it's impossible to tell about what happened to me in a 'discreet fashion.'"

Of course, if Greg had really had any option at all, he would have preferred not to tell anyone. The less people who knew the better. If he could only have told Grissom, he would have gladly done so, but the fact of the matter was that Greg had decided the others really did need to know, so they could eventually understand why he was the way he was. So though Greg had disagreed with every word he'd told Grissom, his supervisor had smiled at him in quite an enigmatic way that Greg was haunted by. And it was only then, sitting in one of the layout rooms with his friends, that it finally dawned on Greg what had been in that strange smile Grissom had favored him with.

It had been pride.

Once he understood it, Greg was even more confused. He found it strange that Grissom was proud of him, moreover that he had smiled as though he had hoped Greg would give him that answer, as though it had been some sort of test. Greg found that Grissom always possessed that strange, wise-old-wizard quality that sometimes spooked him, but more often times awed him. He was a Rubik's Cube of complex patterns. And Greg had been solving Rubik's Cubes since he was eight years old. But Grissom was his greatest challenge yet. Every time he twisted Grissom one way so his actions would match up with his words, his facial expressions and body language would disagree. And when Greg matched Grissom's words to his body language, his actions always contradicted him.

"You're kind of like a walnut," Greg said out loud over the rim of his mug as he looked at Grissom.

These being the first words out of his mouth in ten minutes, everyone in the room was struck dumb. They had probably expected him to launch right into his story. But they didn't realize that Greg was solving another Rubik's Cube in his head. How to twist his story one way so they understood it, while subtly twisting another part of it in order to make it easier to hear. And until he figured that out, he would procrastinate.

But Grissom, ever the unpredictable one, just smiled at him again while the rest of his friends exchanged confused looks. "Is that so?" he said simply, his tone one of amusement as he held a sense of intrigue in his eye.

And then Greg grinned as he realized what Grissom was doing. To Grissom, Greg was a puzzle too. But Greg was a jigsaw puzzle, whose pieces had been scattered to the wind and not all of them were available to Grissom. So the older man patiently waited, until Greg slowly fed him the pieces so he could fit them together. While Greg twisted Grissom's personality in his head in order to make the colored squares of it line up, Grissom tried to take Greg's words, his actions, and his body language and get clues from them to fill in the blanks of his puzzle. Moreover, each of them was enjoying the mystery.

"A tough nut to crack," Greg explained.

"Isn't that the pot calling the kettle black?" Grissom returned with a challenging raise of the eyebrows.

It was a game now. The others didn't understand, but he knew Grissom did. He had finally found a way to make his story fun. With a prologue— a battle of the wits between two very skilled opponents. And yet, Greg had the sinking feeling that he would lose. Didn't he always lose, when Grissom was involved? "You don't know how black I am." Greg had moved his pawn. He waited to see if Grissom took the bait.

"I'd like to find out." Success! In order to take the pawn, Grissom had exposed his queen.

"Give and take, Gil," Greg said. "You show me yours, I'll show you mine." It was the first time Greg had ever used such familiar terms in talking to his supervisor, but the old man seemed to smile as he leaned back in his chair and grinned at him again, finally defeated. Check mate. This time, Greg recognized his smile immediately. It was that of a man who had just lost to a worthy opponent. Grissom respected him.

"You've grown," Grissom noted, revealing his pride in his voice.

"Well, I'm two months older than when you saw me last," Greg replied.

Grissom laughed lightly. "It's more than that."

"You're right," Greg admitted. He looked around at the assembled. Catherine, Sara, Nick and Warrick were all there of course, but Jim Brass hovered in the corner just watching the scene quietly. Greg wasn't sure what Brass was doing all the way over there. But he understood the want for detachment. As a matter of fact, he was experiencing it himself at that moment.

He looked at Sara. "Your John Doe," he said. "The one with the wedding band."

"The one the government took away from us," Sara said, nodding. "The case you were… supposedly helping with."

"Supposedly being the key word," Greg said with a sad smile. "I wrote you another note that day. They… they found it, and they took it, and they replaced it with the note you found."

Sara's eyes drifted away and the tiniest smug smile threatened to pull at her lips. Greg knew she was telepathically singing _I told you so_ to Grissom and dancing circles around him in her day dream.

Greg continued. "About the John Doe. His name was Mark Anthony Sanders. And he was my father."

He didn't know what he had expected with this revelation. Maybe for Luke Skywalker to rush into the room and start screaming "No!" as he cradled his stump of a hand. But not a one of them moved. They barely kept breathing. They were riveted, hanging onto every word as if for dear life. They didn't want to interrupt with even the quietest gasp of surprise for fear it would throw Greg off track. Or maybe they weren't surprised at all. Maybe on some level, they had known all along.

"He, uh… disappeared, when I was fourteen," Greg explained quietly. "Two weeks before my fifteenth birthday, actually. Late April of 1990. He left for a business trip and never came back. The cops apparently looked into it, but since we didn't know the company he supposedly worked for, they didn't really find anything. It was literally as if he'd just vanished into thin air. Until we pulled him out of Lake Mead. So I started digging. And somebody didn't like it. So he needed to… incapacitate me. His words, not mine…" Though who 'he' was, Greg wasn't ready to divulge yet. "And… my d-death…" It was the first time he stuttered yet, and he swallowed, trying to get through it. He couldn't look at them anymore. "… supposedly… had to like… mean something? Or something. I don't know, again, these are his words, and I wouldn't trust him further than I could throw him anyway, the thing is… His word is all I have. And he let me go, in the end, so…" He was digressing, and he knew it, talking more to himself than to his friends, who were doubtlessly quite confused by now.

"You don't need to know the gory details," Greg said with a sigh, looking up at them again. "Just know that… it _was_ against my will, and that it _wasn't_ a picnic, and that at one point, I think I forgot… _all_ of you. And Warrick was married to a fish, that was weird…"

This did elicit a quiet shuffle among the assembled. Greg knew he sounded crazy, but he felt that in a way, he was. His mind would always be a little wonky after the events of the past two months. "But the important thing is that I remembered you, eventually at least, and when the opportunity presented itself for me to get the hell out of there, I took it and I didn't look back. It's gone now, the place where I was, and the people too, so there's no use in looking for them, not that I believe you'd find them even if they weren't gone. They're terrorists, you see, and double agents, and CIA spies, and… and I wasn't exactly sure who was on whose side by the end of it, really. I don't think it really matters. Because I found out how my father was murdered, moreover, I found out _why_ he was murdered, and what he was doing all those years he wasn't with my mother and let me tell you, he wasn't having an affair…"

He trailed off. He didn't know what to say short of that. It was the whole two months in a nutshell, minus the gory specifics, and the truth about the organization that had held him hostage for nearly ten weeks. Sixty-eight days.

They were still waiting. It was obvious they weren't satisfied. Greg knew he had explained everything, and yet simultaneously had explained nothing. _I should work for the government,_ he thought ironically.

Catherine reached a gentle hand across the table and gave him her best protective smile. She spoke in soft, maternal tones as she took his hand in hers. "Greg… We were wondering if you could… tell us the sort of things that happened to you while you were there."

"You don't need to know that," Greg said quickly, almost defensively, as he pulled his hand away from her. "Why would you need to know that?"

Catherine looked over at Grissom who was watching Greg intently, still putting the jigsaw puzzle together in his head. And then she was looking at Greg again. "Actually… We just want to be sure there aren't any health risks. That's all. If you refuse to go to a hospital, well, that's one thing, but if you suffered through something that requires medical attention, it would be negligent to just stand by and pretend you're as healthy as you were ten weeks ago."

"It would be negligent," Greg repeated flatly.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She knew the word had sounded cold and detached. Like she was only caring about him because it was the right thing to do. "You know that's not what I meant. We're all worried about you, and we want to make sure that you bounce back from this as well as you possibly can, emotionally, mentally and physically."

Greg trembled as he remembered all the horrors he suffered through. He recalled the way the Rat had just listed his torture methods off to Greg like they were chores on a checklist. He wondered if it was possible to do the same with the methods he suffered through. "They did a… lot," he said. "The only health hazard that I can imagine is the…" he swallowed. "… scars, on my back. I had an infection I think, for a while, but they cleaned up the wounds. They didn't want me dying of septicemia. It had to be on their terms."

"Scars?" Nick whispered, looking shaken.

Greg's eyes gravitated over to Nick and he nodded. "Uh… yeah. I think he was pissed. I don't think he was planning on it, but I pissed him off so… he left a lasting mark which he hadn't done before. They're just a few lash marks, they've been healing all right after they cleaned it up. Other than…" A dull ache began emanating from his shoulder and he laughed darkly. "I mean… there was… the brand, but that was more of a…" he rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well that was more for marking purposes, obviously. The fact that it hurt was just a bonus."

"They _branded_ you?!" Nick exclaimed, jumping to his feet so fast he knocked over the chair he was sitting in.

Greg nodded sadly. He smiled over at Sara, whose eyes were on the floor. "It's not so bad, really. I mean, now I feel kind of more connected to my old man, you know?"

Nick was looking like he was trying hard to control his fury.

It was Grissom who spoke, and quietly too. "A cross and circle?"

Greg nodded. "The same. Sit down, Nick. All that anger can't be good for your blood pressure."

His hands clenched into fists, but the anger seemed to subside as Catherine put a gentle hand on his forearm and he rolled his eyes and lifted up the chair he had knocked over before he sat down again.

"Listen, that's pretty much it," Greg said, getting to his feet. "I don't really think—"

"What else did they do to you, Greg?" Brass asked from the shadows. Greg looked over at him.

"Does it matter?" he asked.

Grissom and Brass exchanged looks. "Jim knows of a very good psychiatrist for post traumatic stress. It'll be covered under your insurance and everything. We just want to know how bad the damage is. I want to know how black you are, Greg. I want to know how deep you go."

Greg looked away from them as he slipped into his chair again. "So this is an assessment of my psychological profile," he said bitterly.

"No!" Sara said quickly, reaching out to him across the table. But after Catherine had tried that technique, Greg's hands both rested firmly in his lap and she couldn't reach him. "No. It's clear that what happened to you wasn't very fun. But it's not just infectious wounds, Greg. It could be something internal that's the problem. You mentioned electricity last night…"

"I also thought you were someone you clearly aren't last night," Greg snapped back. "I was half out of my mind then, I _still_ am, that doesn't mean jack shit."

"Greg…" Sara whispered. "Electricity can do all sorts of things to your heart, and—"

Greg interrupted her furiously. "And if I was going to have a heart attack from it, it would have happened by now, OK Sara? So for fuck's sake, just… _shut up_ because you don't get it, you don't, and I _know_…" he stopped, surprised at himself. "I… I know what's…" But he couldn't even finish his thought as he looked around the room at his friends who were all shocked by his outburst and it devastated him. They were terrified of him. No. _No_. He didn't want to turn into this. He wasn't a monster.

He wasn't his father.

He took a few deep breaths then rubbed his eyes with one hand. "I… I'm sorry guys, I know you all mean well, but I… You can't imagine how hard this is for me right now."

They all held their breath. No one responded to that because they knew he was right. And yet, the simple fact that they could admit that they would never understand made Greg feel a little better. It made relating the events to them that much easier because he wasn't burdened with the need to try and make them understand. He looked up at them and smiled. They had no idea why, but they could see the relief in his eyes.

He nodded. "OK," he whispered. "OK. Um. Let me think…" He spoke with a sort of business like tone, with the tiniest quaver in his voice, but it was manageable. "There was… isolation, starvation, temperature extremes…" He thought back. Images flashed in his mind and he winced, but he shook it off. "… uh… the whips, water boarding…" He counted on his fingers. Water boarding made five. He moved to his other hand. "… sleep deprivation, electric current… and a few humiliation techniques I would much rather not list here. I think that was all, I don't think I forgot anything, and if I did then good because I'd rather not remember." He looked up at them all and blinked. "Is that it? Do you need anything else?"

Grissom was about to speak when a phone beeped. Everyone looked around until Warrick realized he was the guilty party and fished out his phone, frowning. "Sofia…" he said. "We have a lead on the Sharpe case."

"Didn't you solve that by now?" Catherine asked, but Warrick slowly shook his head.

"Nah, all our leads were dead ends," he said. "Going to that pet place was a shot in the dark, and now Sofia says it burned down earlier today. Suspicious circs. She wants me to—"

"Cindy Sharpe?" Greg asked, the name ringing a strange bell in the back of his mind.

Grissom was looking at him, still putting the pieces of the puzzle together. "Greg, how do you know that name?"

He wracked his brain. "I… I don't know," he said honestly. "I just… do. What burnt down? Where?"

"This pet clinic on Riverdale," Warrick said. "Some French name, uh… Jean Pierre, Jean—"

"Jean Luc?"

"Yeah…" Warrick said slowly.

Greg nodded and looked away for a moment. So that's where he'd heard the name. Cindy Sharpe was the name Greg had heard on the answering machine when Warrick had left a message. What had the Rat said? She had been involved with an employee there? Had she been part of the conspiracy? He turned to Warrick suddenly, expressionlessly. "Can I come?"

They were taken aback. "Are you sure you're up for field work right now, Greg?" Catherine asked, sounding an ounce too protective for Greg's tastes.

But he simply nodded. "Yeah, I can handle it. You heading over now, Warrick?"

"If… we're done here…" Warrick replied as he slowly looked at the others for direction.

"We're done here," Grissom said resolutely, his eyes resting on Greg as he folded his hands on the table.

"Grissom—" Sara began, but he hushed her with a raise of his hand.

"I trust that Greg is the best judge of what he is and isn't capable of. Go ahead, Warrick, take him with you."

It was obvious that Sara was dissatisfied with this decision as she folded her arms and pouted like a toddler. The expression made Greg smile.

"Don't fret, Sara," he said. "If you're worried about me, you could always spend the night again. And this time, I won't make you sleep on the couch."

Sara didn't move but by the way her face twitched, Greg knew she was trying hard not to smile and roll her eyes.

"Well," said Grissom loudly as he rose to his feet. "I think you all have cases you should be working on, don't you?"

The others got the hint and immediately started shuffling about, gathering up their things as they prepared to leave the room and return to work. Catherine turned to Nick and started talking about blood spatter in hushed tones while Warrick made his way over to Greg, looking slightly awkward and a little stunned.

"OK…" he said. "So, I should brief you or something on the case, right?" Greg nodded silently and Warrick joined in. "Right… So Cindy Sharpe was a sales clerk at Victoria's Secret over on Pine. She was viciously murdered about a month ago. Rape kit came back positive for spermicide, so there was that too. Like I said before, all the leads were dead ends— everyone with motive had alibis and we had very little evidence. Our last connection was to a technician at this pet clinic called Joseph Reynolds. He bought her dinner the night before she died and we thought maybe he decided he'd come back the next night and get whatever he didn't get before but apparently he had been working that night anyways so it all checked out…"

Greg stopped paying attention. The room was rapidly clearing and as Sara exited it was only Greg, Warrick and Grissom in the room, who was leaning on the table looking exhausted.

"Hey Warrick," Greg said, interrupting him. "How about I meet you in the car and you can brief me on the way over."

Warrick hesitated before he nodded. "Sounds good," he said. "Don't be too long."

"Like Wally West, my friend," Greg assured him.

Warrick chuckled as he headed to the door. He was about to leave when he paused and looked at Greg. "You know, I always was a Barry Allen fan myself."

Greg moved his hand swiftly above his head and made a _whoosh_ sound. "That was before my time, man."

Warrick shook his head and smiled. "Kids today," he muttered before leaving.

Greg's smile faded as he turned his attention on Grissom, who didn't seem to notice that he was still in the room. "I wanted to say thanks," he said.

This startled the older man and he looked up at Greg. "I don't know what for," he said.

"For not babying me," Greg replied. "I was so scared that everyone would… that you would think I was… damaged, or something. Like I wasn't capable of working, or… or that I—"

Grissom interrupted him with a quiet laugh. "Greg," he said softly as he approached him. "You have enough people worrying about you and taking care of you. I just figured… You had enough friends. You needed a boss."

Greg beamed at him and laughed at the irony. "So you decided that… after a traumatic event instead of being there for me like a friend would be, you'd just say to me, 'Good work, kid, now here's a case and I want the evidence in by COB today.'"

Grissom nodded, still smiling. "Something to that effect."

Greg looked down, then up again. "It's so strange how… amazing that makes me feel. To know that you have that kind of faith in me. To know that you don't just want me to go back to normal around here, you _expect_ me to because you won't settle for anything less. In that… just by being my boss, you're actually being a great friend, Grissom."

"Well," said Grissom, trying to brush it off. "I'm not as socially inept as Catherine might have you believe. I know a thing or two about… these kind of things."

Greg nodded. "So what happened to you?"

"I beg your pardon?" Grissom asked.

"You know about these things," Greg said. "What happened?"

Grissom sighed. "I don't…"

"You made me talk, didn't you?" Greg pointed out. "Spill."

Grissom nodded. Greg could see that Grissom knew his argument was valid. He still paused uncertainly before he went on. "When I was nine, my dad died," he said. "It was rather sudden, but… I remember going to school the next day and… that feeling you get when you walk into a room and everyone stops talking and you know it was about you. I hated that feeling. And no one said a word to me, not even the teacher, until I sat down at my desk. And then… the strangest thing happened. There was a little girl who sat behind me, her name was Suzy, and I remember she tapped me on the shoulder, so I turned around. She gave me a gap-toothed grin and said in sweet, good-morning tones… 'Hi, Gil.' And I said… 'Hi, Suzy.' And then she giggled and offered me a piece of her bagel. It's the little things, Greg. It's things like a smiling hello when no one else knows what to say to you. It's people treating you no different than they did before just so you can have that taste of what things were like before, so you can forget, if only an instant, that it had even happened at all. When everyone handles you with kid gloves, it's a constant reminder of the horrible thing you've experienced. And I don't want to do that to you, Greg. It's clear you want to move on. So I'm trying to let you."

Greg was beaming. "You know, I'd hug you right now if I didn't think it was obscenely inappropriate."

"I'm glad you decided that," Grissom said. "You should go. Warrick will be waiting."

Greg was still grinning as he nodded and turned to the door, but then Grissom spoke again and he stopped.

"Catherine and Sara fought tooth and nail to get me to open a case on you. There were countless times when I almost did. But…"

"You didn't," Greg said, not yet turning to face him again. He was glad Grissom had brought it up. He had been wondering about Grissom's thoughts on his disappearance. He was the only one of them that Greg could never really figure out, his Rubik's Cube complexities ever magnifying, even now. The pieces on one side were lining up, but there were still a few colored squares out of place and Greg couldn't figure out how to match them up.

"I just… wanted to say that I'm sorry," Grissom said softly. "Maybe if I had listened to Catherine and Sara instead of Morgan and Ecklie, we would have been able to…" He trailed off.

"Save me," Greg finished quietly, staring at the door knob. "Grissom—" He turned around to look at his supervisor, the smile gone from his face. He took a deep breath, then held it for a moment before sighing. "You did nothing wrong."

"Don't think it didn't mean I didn't _want_ to do something," Grissom said quietly. "I just… didn't know what to do…"

Greg smiled again. "For reasons I don't really want to go in to here, I… I'm actually glad that you guys… _didn't_ figure it out and bust in guns blazing."

Grissom's brow wrinkled as his blue eyes looked him over, still putting Greg's jigsaw together. Greg wondered if they ever would truly understand each other. But the answer was irrelevant, because Grissom was the most interesting and challenging puzzle he had ever faced and regardless of whether or not he ever really solved it, he would always have one hell of a time figuring it out.

"OK."

It was an admission of defeat. Grissom didn't understand why Greg was glad of that, but he refused to press the matter. Greg turned back to the door.

"As for saving me…" he said with a small smirk as he turned the doorknob. "In many ways, Grissom, that's an ongoing process that began when I first stumbled drunkenly into the crime lab last night, and not before. It'll take some time, but let me just tell you…" He cast a grin at Grissom over his shoulder. "So far, you all are doing one hell of a job."

Grissom smiled back.


	16. Superheroes

_**Author's Note:**_ I have a lot to say. First thing's first. The little story Grissom told Greg is actually a true story my mother told me about what it was like returning to school after her dad (my grandfather) died when she was just thirteen. Her name is Sue, but the boy behind her was the only one who smiled and said hello to her that morning in a timid, 'Hi, Sue.' She said it was the simplest little thing, and yet it was with these words that the day really seemed to start, and people started talking again, and he just kept smiling at her. I liked it so much, and I thought it was appropriate, I just had to retell it.

Secondly, there are a few pop culture references that I'd like to clarify as I am a multi-faceted dork who can find multiple ways to be dorky, a few of which includes comics and listening to oldies and being a drama/musical theater nut case. Some of them aren't obscure, at least I don't think so, but most are American pop culture, and I'm trying to help out the international audience who may not know of these things. Catch definitions of these references at the end of the chapter (there will be an asterisk (٭) by the reference to let you know that there is, indeed, a footnote defining it, should you need it.) But in the meantime, here's the story.

* * *

The hour long drive had been an awkward one as Greg had expected it would be. He sat in the passenger's seat and watched the lights go by as Warrick fiddled with the radio in an attempt to fill the awkward silence. Whenever he found a channel he claimed to be satisfied with, he'd leave it alone for two minutes before fiddling with it again. Greg wondered if he was focusing so much on the radio so as to avoid an actual conversation. He and Greg had never actually been close, but Greg was certain by Warrick's withdrawn behavior that he had been just as worried as any of them. 

Warrick reached for the dial for the thirteenth time. "NPR is such crap these days, sorry, I thought they'd actually have a good story on—"

"Warrick, just leave the radio alone," Greg said at last.

"Oh," Warrick said, withdrawing his hand. "Sorry, I didn't know you were listening to…" He trailed off and let the reporter fill in the blanks.

"… the price of Brazilian sugarcane skyrocketed yesterday only to plummet once again today—"

Greg turned off the radio and put on a voice to mimic the reporter. "—thus making this story completely redundant and irrelevant to your daily life anyway." He looked over at Warrick and tried to smile at him, but Warrick's eyes remained on the road. "As fascinating as the price of Brazilian sugarcane is, Warrick… I wasn't all too interested. I just didn't want you to keep messing with the channel."

Warrick nodded as they came to a stoplight and drummed his finger on the wheel. "You prefer no radio. OK."

It was clear that it _wasn't_ OK because now Greg had just forced him to deal with the uneasy silence that was stuffing up the car.

Greg sighed, wishing to dispel the strangeness and close the emotional chasm that existed between them. "So what's on your mind?"

"Lots of things," Warrick replied, sounding earnest. "This case, Tina, you…"

"How is Tuna—_Tina_?" Greg corrected quickly.

Warrick glanced at him, unaware of the slip. "Oh, she's pretty good…" he replied conversationally. "She's just been working a lot of overtime lately and there's this doctor… Never mind. She's been on my case to stop working so hard so then she goes out and has to work extra hours like she's doing it to spite me… We rarely see each other anymore."

"That bites," Greg said unhelpfully.

"Yeah…" Warrick muttered. The light turned green and they kept on forward.

Greg chewed on his lip, all too aware that the awkward silence had returned. He made the figure of a turtle with his two hands and smiled, wondering if Warrick would recognize what he was doing or not if he looked at him.

"What are you thinking about… me?" he asked tentatively, unsure if he wanted to know the answer.

Warrick let out a long sigh. "I'm thinking that maybe Barry Allen٭ might have done a better job of helping you out than we did," he replied. "Or maybe even Wally West٭."

Greg thought to himself a moment before leaning his head back against the seat and staring at the ceiling. "Nah…" he said. "Nah, he… he wouldn't have been much help. You guys did fine. Under the circumstances. Besides, you guys will always have one up on the Flash."

"Oh, and what's that?" Warrick asked.

"You guys actually exist."

Warrick chuckled and nodded as he conceded this fact. "Touché."

Greg turned his head to look at his friend, for after seeing him again, he was quite certain that they were friends. "Warrick…"

"You don't have to speak if you don't have anything to say," Warrick said. "It's cool."

"But… I do," he said. "I do have something to say and… Look, I was in way over my head and there are _still_ things about the people who… tortured me—" The word 'tortured' tasted bitter on his tongue. "— that I will never understand, but I am… pretty sure that if the men I knew had seen any of you, or thought you were getting too close, they probably would have killed you on sight. They were ruthless. More than ruthless, and I… It was something that I either had to do on my own or never do at all. I realized that when I was sitting in the electric chair and an opportunity presented itself. It was do or die. I couldn't wait for some superhero like the Flash to swoop in and rescue me because even if you did decide to find out what had happened to me, real life isn't like it is in the comics. It wasn't a half-assed kidnapping I was involved in, or some amateur psychopath with a penchant for theatrical flare, it was a highly methodical and deadly merciless secret organization that would literally stop at nothing to keep things quiet. You guys aren't superheroes. You're human, and you're mortal, and I have the sinking feeling that if you guys opened an investigation into my abduction, they would have fought your progress at every turn until you guys proved to be too much of a nuisance and they decided just to take you out."

He waited for a reaction from Warrick. When none came, he felt as though he had failed to get his point across because Warrick still looked like he was fighting a guilty conscience.

"Warrick… You guys did nothing wrong. I got out of there alright, and I did it with… a little outside help and some luck, but mostly I did it on my own. Without putting you guys in danger. Because if you fought them, you would have lost. In my opinion, Grissom did the right thing, not looking into it."

Warrick still didn't seem convinced. "Greg… In the end, it doesn't really matter _who_ took you or how ruthless they were. The fact of the matter is that we didn't know at the time, in fact I feel like we _still_ don't know. I feel like you only told us fifty percent of the story… But that's beside the point, the thing is, we could have done something. And we didn't. We should have listened to the girls and tried anyways. We should have known you would never have left of your own accord without a proper goodbye, government assignment or no."

Greg sighed. He knew this argument was futile. Warrick would never understand his point, and there was nothing he could say to appease his guilt. "OK, man," Greg said. "Whatever you say, just… don't beat yourself up about it, OK?"

Warrick glanced at him and then slowly smiled. "OK."

Greg looked out the window again as Warrick turned onto Roosevelt and they passed the 7-11 he had waited outside of. Chills began to chase each other up and down Greg's spine as his hairs stood on end. And then, Warrick turned onto Riverdale and Greg saw the scorched façade of his own personal hell. There were squad cars and crime scene tape plus a fire truck or two.

The two CSIs both climbed out of the car and ducked under the crime scene tape as they headed over to the detective interviewing someone. Greg recognized the blonde hair that tumbled down the detective's back immediately. He had yet to see Sofia, and wondered vaguely at her reaction. But it was the other woman, the one Sofia was speaking to that made Greg's heart beat faster as his stomach lurched.

A petite brunette was speaking with Sofia and gesturing dramatically with wide brown eyes. She tossed her hair back and looked past Sofia before she froze. Sofia noticed her change in demeanor and turned to see the approaching Greg and Warrick.

Greg's eyes did not leave the petite brunette's, who looked as if she had been petrified and glued to the spot.

"Greg," he heard Sofia say with a smile to her tone. "I heard you were back. You look like shit."

Greg kept his eyes trained on the brunette. "Thanks. What's the lowdown, Sofia?" he asked flatly.

Sofia looked back at the brunette. "Sally Simpson٭," she said. "She's the receptionist at the clinic. She was just telling me about what she saw of the fire and her theories as to how it started. Would you care to continue, Miss Simpson?" But Sally Simpson was still stunned. Sofia spoke more sharply. "Miss Simpson?"

She blinked and shook her head before looking at Sofia again and nodding. "Right. Well, I wasn't really… here when the fire started, I was on my break and when I came back I couldn't find Joe and everyone was gone and… That's all I know."

"And when did this happen?" Sofia asked.

"Sometime this afternoon," Sally replied.

Greg snorted, drawing Sofia's attention. "Are you OK, Greg?"

Greg nodded and really looked at Sofia for the first time since he'd arrived. "Peachy," he said. "I was just thinking— You got a haircut," he noticed suddenly.

She smiled. "You were gone a long time."

"We can talk about that later," Warrick said.

"Yeah, we can," Greg agreed. He looked at Sally Simpson. "I was just thinking of this girl I know. Well, I don't really know her, actually, but she poured me a glass of wine once and she was flirting with me really badly. She's a receptionist too, if you can imagine that, Miss Simpson. Anyways, she had a nice ass, but all in all, there wasn't really much going on upstairs, so while she was flirting with me, she forgot to pay attention to the job she was supposed to be doing and what happened? A gas tank exploded in the basement and totally killed her workplace and her career. And then when her boss asked her what happened, she lied about it to save her own ass as well as fool the insurance company by saying it actually occurred several hours later when she wasn't on shift so they didn't think it was employee negligence. That didn't by chance happen here, did it? Miss Simpson?" He made a point to add as much sickeningly sweetness to his tone as possible whenever he said her name.

But she had quickly recovered from her initial shock at seeing him and shook her head with wide, doe-like innocent brown eyes. "No, sir, it happened just like I told you. I'd tell you to ask Joe, but the cops tell me he was probably caught in the fire. They haven't found his body, but we're pretty sure he's dead."

She said the words 'he's dead' so harshly that it was as though she was trying to impress something upon Greg.

"Dead, huh?" Greg said. "Well now, that's too bad."

"Indeed, sir," Sally replied. "And if I didn't know any better, I would say that someone _wanted_ him that way."

"And why would they want your friend Joe dead?" Greg asked offhandedly.

"Well," Sally began, her eyes boring into Greg's. "He did have a very nasty temper. He liked to shove people up against walls and… he particularly hated it when people called him… _Chuck_."

Greg's blood ran cold and he didn't speak. They stared at each other for a long time. Greg fixed her with a scrutinizing gaze which she returned with the most innocent brown eyes she could muster.

Finally, Sofia broke the strange silence. "OK… I think that's all we need you for, Miss Simpson. Can you tell me where your supervisor is?"

She looked at him. "Oh, you mean Dr. Sanders?"

"Sanders?" Warrick and Greg said together.

She nodded. "Dr. Mark Sanders. He ran the place. But he's gone now. I couldn't tell you what happened to him. He might have gotten caught in the fire like Joe. But his office is barely touched, you might want to look into that."

"Where is it?" Sofia asked.

"Down the hall," Sally Simpson said, gesturing in through what was left of the door to the clinic. "On your left, across from the dog kennels. It says 'Dr. White' on the door, but it's been that way for years, if the door's still there." She looked at Greg pointedly before speaking again. "You can't miss it."

The detective and the two CSIs nodded before ducking under the debris of what was left of the ceiling and entered into the mess. It was probably the eeriest thing Greg had ever experienced in his life, like returning to his own grave sight where he had died and been resurrected time and time again. He had sworn to himself that he would never look back, and yet he had done more than that. Not only was he looking back, he was walking back, right into the belly of the beast that had swallowed him whole. He felt the goosebumps begin to rise on his skin.

He spoke, mostly to dispel the haunting fear that rose up in him like the phantoms of forgotten nightmares. "I think you should pull her in for questioning."

"Sally Simpson?" Warrick asked. "Her only crime is having parents who were fans of The Who٭."

"Who?" Sofia asked.

"The Who," Warrick repeated.

"What?" Sofia still didn't understand.

Warrick smirked. "Not what," he said. "The _Who_."

Greg felt like he was in the middle of an Abbott and Costello٭ routine. "No," he said. "I think she's lying."

"Well, that may be so," Sofia replied. "But we have no reason to suspect her of arson."

"I didn't say she was guilty of arson…" Greg muttered, causing Warrick to cast him a curious glance. But he preempted any further questions as he stopped walking. "I think we're here," he said.

The outside of the office didn't look at all like he'd remembered it. The letters on the door were faded and the door itself was black and burned. Greg reached for the handle.

"Don't touch that," Warrick said sharply, catching his wrist. "We could print it."

Greg knew that they would find his prints on the handle from when he had entered it to retrieve his clothes. "I don't think the fire started in there if it's untouched," he said, trying to keep the tremor from his voice as the grip on his wrist remained tight.

Warrick hesitated, then let go of Greg's hand and he reached for the knob again to turn it and thus explain why his prints were on it, if they did end up printing it. But he didn't need to turn it as the door opened with a slight push, obviously weakened from the fire.

Sally Simpson had been right. The wall had secluded the office from much of the damage and Greg wondered if it had been planned that way. The fire he had started happened downstairs in the labyrinth of torture rooms. Unless they started another fire upstairs, the miniscule explosion he had catalyzed couldn't have possibly reached all the way down the hall and into the front office and cause as much damage as it had.

He immediately walked over to the desk. Everything was as he had left it. He opened a drawer and saw an ID card with Wesley's face on it and the name "Mark A. Sanders, DVM" written beside it.

Warrick was by the credenza looking in a wardrobe where he pulled out a lab coat, also with M. Sanders written on the pocket. "Greg…" he said, turning to the younger CSI. "Wasn't your father's…?"

"It's a common enough name," Greg muttered quietly as he stared at the ID in the drawer. "No relation, though, I'm sure." He said the words with a hint of disgust that he couldn't help but keep from his tone. He tossed the ID to Warrick who looked at it.

"What do you suppose the 'A' stands for?" he asked. "Didn't your dad have a middle name too?"

"Yeah," Greg said. "Anthony. I doubt it's the same. His is probably Arnold or something. He looks like an Arnold, wouldn't you say?"

Though Greg joked, he knew that the 'A' had to stand for Anthony. It seemed that after his father had died, Wesley had assumed his identity as an alias. Greg even found a doctorate of veterinary medicine degree in the drawer. As he pulled it out, he deemed it to be forged, although he would have to get Ronnie to confirm that for him. Not that he cared enough to check. He was pretty sure that these credentials were all faked so they looked like a respectable business. Neither Wesley nor Greg's father had ever been a veterinarian. Wesley had told Greg himself that he had majored in international relations, not medicine.

Greg was about to put the framed doctorate back inside the desk when he paused, noting a crumpled photograph that rested beneath it. He pulled it out and wrinkled his nose at the smell of rotten bananas before realizing that it was the photograph of him and his father which he had placed in his own trashcan before he'd left. So Wesley had known to check the trash, too. Greg wondered why his father's friend had decided not to give the photograph back to Greg. Maybe he had suffered a pang of nostalgia upon discovering it, and, Greg wondered, felt the stabbing nausea of guilt for what he had done to the Sanders family.

He pocketed the photograph and put the doctorate back, but Greg found nothing in the drawers that would give him any inkling as to where Wesley might have gone. He couldn't even tell from the state of his office if Wesley had fled or had been dragged away by either the government or the organization he had betrayed. Greg was sure that a warm welcome would be absent in both cases. They each had a score to settle with Wesley, and with a rare stab of mercy, he hoped his father's old friend was dead, for Wesley's own sake.

And then, he saw it. Glittering on top of blank patient admittance forms sat a tarnished gold ring and right next to it was a Post-It. It wasn't addressed to anyone, nor was it signed, but Greg was sure he knew who it was meant for as well as who had penned it.

_If you're reading this then you looked back when you swore you wouldn't, and as a prize for your stubborn curiosity, I bequeath to you this token of my respect for a worthy adversary. I won't be needing it where I'm going anyway._

"What's that?" Warrick asked as he saw Greg reading the note.

Greg blinked. "Nothing," he said, putting the note down. "Just some doodling."

Warrick nodded, seemingly appeased, and began examining the credenza. Greg picked the note up again and shoved it in his pocket before snatching up the ring and doing the same.

"I don't think there's anything in here," he said to Warrick. "Where did the fire start?"

"The firemen seem to think it happened in the kennels," Sofia said. "It sealed off the stairwell to the basement. It'll be impossible to get down there now."

"I'll go check out the kennels, then," Warrick said and headed out the door.

"The b-basement?" His stutter had been barely noticeable, but it was noticed.

"Is something wrong, Greg?" Sofia asked, tenderly. She had been watching him warily ever since he'd arrived and he knew she was burning with questions to ask him too, but he'd be damned if he let her.

Greg swallowed and tried to sound calm. "Did Miss Simpson happen to say… what was _in_ the basement?"

"Just supplies and storage," Sofia told him, shrugging it off. "She said no one was down there, so the firemen didn't worry much about it."

"How big is it?" Greg asked.

"I saw the floor plans…" Sofia replied, eying him suspiciously. "It's no bigger than this room, really. Why?"

The floor plans lied. "OK…" Greg said. "No reason, so… There's no going down there then?"

"It's completely sealed off," Sofia repeated. "The fire caused the roof to collapse and heavy concrete filled the passage way. It would take days to clear it, and Sally Simpson said her company wants to just bulldoze the whole thing and start all over anyway, so they aren't even going to bother."

"They're going to build over the basement?" Greg whispered.

She nodded. "Greg, is something bothering…?"

"But they're just going to… leave it there? With the… the rubble and the… the…" _Bodies_. He knew there were bodies down there. What better place to dispose of the corpses of the latest batch of victims the Rat had told him were executed two days ago? Not to mention the bodies of Joe and his teenage assistant, plus whoever else was unlucky enough to have been killed in the fire he had started.

"Don't worry about it, Greg," Sofia said, though she could tell that he was worried. She approached him. "Are you alright? I heard you were a little shook up last night when you—"

"I'm fine," Greg said, taking a step backwards and avoiding Sofia's eyes. "I just… Are we done here?"

Sofia looked over her shoulder briefly at the door before turning to face Greg again. "Once we figure out if this was arson or not. Greg, did you know that receptionist?"

Greg blinked at Sofia. "Why do you say that?"

"You two just looked at each other like you knew… Never mind," Sofia shook it off. "Let's go see what Warrick found."

They had met him in the hall. He was carrying a half-melted gasoline tank. "I lifted some prints off of here," he said. "It looked to be the source. Looks like it was poured all over the kennels. No signs of any animal carcasses, though. I'm guessing they got all the animals out in time…"

"Is that even possible if it started in the kennels?" Sofia asked.

"If it was arson, it might be," Warrick replied. "Maybe the perp had some sympathy for the animals and let them go."

"Sympathy for animals but not for people? That sounds like misanthropic behavior," Sofia said with a nod.

"Can we go outside?" Greg asked, pulling at his collar. "I need some air."

The others acquiesced, though Sofia was still watching Greg curiously as they both followed him outside where they saw Sally Simpson again talking to a man Greg vaguely recognized. He felt as though he had known him a lifetime ago, but he couldn't place his face. He was an elegantly elderly man who had a haggard face with trimmed gray hair and a well-groomed appearance.

Warrick went frigid next to Greg and he felt the temperature in the night air drop several degrees as Warrick muttered to Sofia, "What's _he_ doing here?"

"Down boy," Sofia whispered. "Let me handle this." She called over to the man talking to Sally. "Agent Morgan?"

And then it dawned on Greg where he had seen the man before. He was the government agent who had pulled him and Sara off the case. Upon Sofia's call, Morgan seemed to give a start and looked over at them with blank gray eyes before striding over. Sally Simpson watched them curiously.

"Detective Curtis," he said cheerily. "What can I do for you?"

"I was going to ask you the same question," she said. "I thought this was a local matter. What does the government want with it?"

His eyes rested on Greg and the young CSI had a feeling he was fabricating a lie. "I heard Greg Sanders was out here," he said, confirming Greg's suspicions. "Someone decided to not inform me that he had arrived."

"Well we figured that if you'd been working with him for the past two months you would have known," Warrick hissed sarcastically.

Morgan smiled at him, but his eyes were less than amused. "I was wondering if I could have a word…"

To Greg's great surprised, he felt Warrick seize his upper arm. "Greg doesn't want to talk to you."

"Warrick," Sofia muttered warningly.

Morgan's smug smile was still in place. "I think Mr. Sanders can speak for himself, can't you, Greg?"

Greg had no issue with Daniel Morgan, but it was clear that Warrick and Sofia did. So he said, "Sure."

But as if to contradict his words, Warrick's grip on his arm tightened. Greg gave him a reassuring smile. "I'll be back in a minute," he said, which he hoped Warrick understood translated into _I'll be alright._

He seemed to understand because his grip slackened and he nodded as if giving approval for Greg to speak to this person, who pulled him away from his two baffled colleagues and over by the crime scene tape by which too many people were bustling around to hear them correctly.

"Hello, Greg," Morgan said simply, inscrutably. "I'm sure you have questions. So. What do you want to know?"

* * *

**Barry Allan** and **Wally West**: Both of these men were mentioned in the previous chapter. They are two different incarnations of the popular comic book hero, the Flash. Wally West is the most recent incarnation and is introduced originally as Barry Allen's nephew, Kid Flash before he eventually takes his uncle's mantle. 

**Sally Simpson** and **The Who**: The Who is that famous band that plays that awesome song we all love at the beginning of CSI. They wrote a rock opera (or rather they wrote a rock opera concept album-- later adapted for the stage in the late eighties-- much like Green Day's "American Idiot") called "Tommy." In "Tommy," there is a character by the name of Sally Simpson, and it is that which Warrick is referencing.

**Abbott and Costello**: Two comedians in the 1930s who did the classic and very well known (among American's and/or baseball fans at least) skit best known as the "Who's on First" routine. If you don't know the routine, google it for more info, and have my assurance that it is hilarious, and classic for a reason.


	17. The Right Side

_**Author's Note:**_ Note for Faithful Readers of WitchGirl: I've been listening to Whiskey Lullaby and other incredibly depressing songs lately, so I've been working more on "Silent Night" than "Nevada Devil" (see profile for details). Looks like "Silent Night" will be after this. A shame, I was hoping I could hold onto it until December. But it's farther along than Nevada Devil, and that's just how my mind works sometimes. I feel like I had something to say about this chapter, but I don't remember... Ah, yes. Hodges. I loved that scene at the end. No. That wasn't it. Oh! Agent Morgan and his shiftiness. Government agents always seem to come off badly when I write them (Agent Morgan here and Agent Ripley in "Salam.") It could be a result of being raised by government workers... but I doubt it. My folks are two of the most awesome people I know :D. Morgan is here to tie up all loose ends. If you still have questions, odds are I have an answer I just forgot to bring it up, so feel free to ask, but this ends the mystery portion of this story more or less. Er... Oh, I finished Harry Potter a few days ago, you're allowed to tell me spoilers now, though I won't mention any here in case HP fans are still reading ;o)

I think that covers everything...

The next chapter is one of my super favorites. I think Kegel likes it too. Prepare for some Nick/Greg and Greg/Sara moments next chapter, and then some interesting Greg/Cath stuff after that (all of this is friendship, by the way, he's not hooking up with them in each section-- sorry, shippers ;o) ). It's my goal to let him have at least one moment with every character. Warrick was this and last chapter (and I suppose Hodges counts but I didn't figure him into the equation, I just sort of... wrote that scene randomly) and Grissom was before that. Er... So I think you have three more chapters, if I figure right, but I haven't written them yet, that's just my plan. And, as you can see, my plans tend to change on me sometimes. Yeah. Um. OK. Thus ends another verbose author's note.

* * *

"So this is just a diversion, I take it?" Greg said. "Make them think you came here for me so as to cover up the real reason you're here, which, ironically, is to cover up something else?"

Morgan grinned. "You're just as clever as your father was," he said.

Greg sighed. "You knew him too, did you?"

"I worked with him, actually," Morgan replied. "Once he came over to the right side."

"I'm not too sure yours_ is_ the right side, actually," Greg said. "Wesley told me—"

"I have no idea what Wesley Clarke told you, but I can assure you that he knew nothing of me or my job," said Morgan.

"Wesley told me," Greg continued, a little irked at the interruption, "that you… _knew_ I was here. For at least a few weeks before I… before he helped me escape. And for the life of me, Agent Morgan, I just can't seem to fathom why you just… _left_ me there. Because from the vague things that Nick told me about what you said about my disappearance, it sounds to me like you were just as keen on keeping the LVPD from investigating my disappearance as Wesley and his crew were."

Morgan nodded as if he were a professor and Greg was his student who had just asked a very pertinent question. "All of that is correct, Greg. We did keep the LVPD from your investigation. It was the one goal we had in common with this branch of the terrorist cell. This whole operation, including Dr. White's organization itself, is completely top secret, and we couldn't have any non-authorized civilian officers on the case. We knew right away that your disappearance was due to the White Tigers and so therefore we played along with the note you supposedly left behind. But don't think for a moment it meant that we weren't looking for you ourselves. We were certain that you would have been taken to the Las Vegas branch which we have been searching for ever since your father's discovery as a spy forced them to relocate. So we searched for you as fervently as we searched for any other victim of the White Tigers, but unfortunately, as usual, the Tigers had left nothing behind. Your car was abandoned in the middle of the desert—"

"My car?!" Greg exclaimed excitedly. "You have my car? Is my wallet and kit inside?"

Morgan nodded. "Yes, and I'm sure we can release it all back to you soon."

Greg grinned. For some reason, the fact that he wouldn't have to replace his kit made him feel exuberant.

Morgan continued. "As I was saying, your car was abandoned in the middle of the desert with nothing but it's own car tracks plus tracks from a motorbike we found abandoned downtown which had been stolen and was absent of suspicious prints. Other than your note, which had clearly been faked, that was all we had to go on. Until Clarke decided to send us the _real_ note you had written."

"I thought he sent that to you anonymously…" Greg said.

Morgan's lips twitched. "Wesley Clarke has gotten careless in his old age. Along with your Post-It, he sent the date of execution for the prisoners. But the dates had been printed from his printer, with his name typed in the margin. Well, not his name. Mark Sanders' name, really, but I knew of only one man who would use that alias these days. But at the words 'Jean Luc's Pet Clinic' coupled with the 'Dr.' in front of 'Mark Sanders,' we knew instantly where the cell had to be. And yet, we still couldn't act. We didn't have nearly enough manpower needed to ambush an agency like that, and we knew nothing about its insides. We needed better reconnaissance too. Clarke became a great help to us, sabotaging them from the inside and feeding us what information he could get away with. And we gathered our forces, flying men in from DC before going in on our scheduled date, when the prisoners would be executed."

"Why _then_?" Greg asked. "You could have saved dozens of lives, why—"

"Because we couldn't have gone in any sooner," Morgan said quietly. "And even if we had, we wouldn't have been saving their lives, Greg. Our mission was to neutralize the threat, not to rescue the victims, who were probably already damaged beyond repair by now anyway. So when we arrived, we locked everyone in the basement and flooded it with nerve gas before sealing the exit. After that, we torched the place, setting fire to one of the kennels to clear out any residue of the gas. We planted evidence that Joseph Reynolds was behind it. But he perished long before we showed up. Sally tells me you know Reynolds quite well as one of your tormentors. She said he was electrocuted…"

He seemed to wait for Greg to reply, maybe fill him in on what exactly happened to Joe Reynolds, but Greg's mind was far away, trapped with the prisoners in the basement.

"Why did… nerve gas?" he repeated.

Morgan nodded. "Whoever didn't die instantly from the gas would starve to death. It probably wasn't a pretty way to die. Isn't. I reckon a few of them might still be alive down there, but no one will ever know."

Greg felt sick. The more he talked with Daniel Morgan the more he felt certain that there was no good and bad in this battle, only the lesser of two very dark evils. "Why?" he whispered. "You could have handled this so many other ways, _why_—"

"Because fundamentalists are impossible to rehabilitate, Greg," Morgan said with such blind certainty that Greg wondered if he was a fundamentalist of a different variety. "If caught, a White Tiger isn't to be reasoned with. He is to be killed on sight. That's how dangerous they are. They are to be eradicated like a plague. It's the only way to get our point across to Henry White, if he's still alive. They don't understand any other way, Greg."

Greg had deduced by now that the White Tigers was the name of the organization that had tortured him for so long. But it didn't go unnoticed to him that Morgan was sounding a bit like a terrorist himself. _Killed on sight… eradicated like a plague… don't understand…_ What ever happened to habeas corpus? The right to trial by jury? All the things their government was supposed to uphold? He wondered if the reason these affairs were top secret was more because of their tactics than their subject matter. What would the country think if they knew the lengths their government was taking in order to keep them safe? Was ignorance truly bliss, a heaven of plausible deniability, or was it leading them blindly down a very dark path into a hell they couldn't argue their way out of? There is always multiple sides to every story, Greg had always believed that, but the more Morgan spoke, the more it seemed to Greg that the two sides of this story were much more alike than they realized, and neither one was in the right.

"And… And what about Wesley?" he asked, almost afraid of the answer. "What about people like my father who betrayed the White Tigers and sold them out to you? What about those who risked and sometimes even gave their lives to spy for you and bring down this organization? Did you throw Wesley down there too, for the dogs to eat the traitor and claw his eyes out as they writhed in the sickening gas?"

Morgan sighed. "Cases like your father, of a White Tiger changing his mind and working for us, are few and far between. Once you go there, once you do the things that they do to their fellow human beings, there is no turning away from the darkness. The ones who turned out to be true to us were not sent down there, no. But the double agents were. I lost one of my best men to the White Tigers. Adrian Banks, and only just turned twenty, too…"

Greg recalled the young goon who had tortured him that he had recognized. "So where is he then?" Greg asked. "What did you guys do to Wesley?"

"Nothing," Morgan told him, and Greg could tell from the bafflement in his eyes that he was being honest. "We thought that maybe… you…?"

Greg shook his head. "Wasn't he here when you guys showed?" Greg asked. "Didn't he help you nerve gas them all?"

"He'd cleared out by the time we arrived," Morgan said. "He wasn't in the basement, we checked…"

So the government didn't have him. That left two options. Either he had fled and disappeared, or the White Tigers somehow got a hold of him. But Greg didn't much care. He didn't have the patience to sit around and unravel conspiracies. "I suppose Miss Simpson over there was bought out by you guys," he said.

"She helped us with the fire and planting the evidence," Morgan replied, eying the girl. "Very obliging girl, really."

"She's a bitch," Greg murmured.

"She'll get what's coming to her," Morgan assured him. "She's been playing both sides for years really. It's like she can't decide what team she wants to play for."

"Which ever one is winning," Greg said.

"That's what we figure," Morgan replied. "You don't need to worry about her. We're going to take care of her once and for all once all this blows over. Oh, that reminds me, Cindy Sharpe, the girl whose murder you're investigating…" Morgan reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. "The credit card receipt for her dinner that night. Joseph Reynolds paid."

"He had dinner with her?" Greg gaped, taking the paper.

Morgan nodded. "Only about an hour before her TOD, I think," he said. "I hope that's enough to place him at the scene. But if not, we'll send you more evidence we recovered."

"_You_ recovered?!" Greg was getting more baffled by the minute. How many murders had these people covered up? What's worse, how many _more_ would they cover up in the future?

"Cindy Sharpe was… a very dear friend of mine," he said with a cold detachedness to his voice that told Greg he was anything but detached. "A daughter of a friend, you see, and… She was one of the very good ones. Altruistic to the end, and that's probably what gave her a way in the end. She tried to snake her way into the organization, so we could have a spy the likes of which we haven't had since Mark's days. But Reynolds figured her out somehow, and what's more decided that rather than just killing her, he would humiliate her while he was at it. It was, after all, his specialty. If you knew Reynolds had been the culprit, it would have interfered with our investigation, so we had to—"

"Shut up," Greg said, staring at the receipt. "Just… shut up. I don't care what you _had_ to do. I just… Where am I supposed to tell Warrick I found this? The chain of custody—"

"The clerk at the restaurant will corroborate that he gave it to you directly," Morgan said. "Just wait a while and give it to CSI Brown when the time is right."

Greg rubbed his eyes, and for all the restless sleep he had gotten earlier, he was still exhausted. "So what do you want from me?" Greg asked. "I'm guessing you want me to keep quiet, not tell anyone about the damn White Tigers, am I right?"

"That's if you haven't told them already," Morgan said. "In which case, we'd have to kill you all."

He said the line with a smile, but Greg wondered if he was really joking. "No, they don't know anything," he said. "I figured government secrets weren't mine to share."

"Smart lad."

"But they should be."

This surprised Morgan. "Are you trying to tell me how to do my—"

"If the White Tigers are as dangerous as you say, committing the ultimate hate crimes of brutalizing innocent people just because of where they're from or what they look like or what political party they support, then don't you think those people should be warned?" Greg asked.

"It would cause mass hysteria—" Morgan said quickly.

"Take a look at what's happening to your country, Agent Morgan," Greg said. "When a fourteen-year-old boy's father disappears with no explanation, do you have any idea what that does to a household? You have no idea what hysteria is." He turned away from the government agent. "At least now, I finally know he died for something. At least now, after seventeen years, I've found my closure."

"You won't speak, will you?" Morgan asked, sounding slightly nervous.

A smile crept across Greg's features. He liked having this sort of power over the haughty Daniel Morgan. "My lips are sealed," he assured him. "Unless someone gets me drunk."

"I—" Morgan blubbered.

"Don't bother hiring a hit man," Greg called over his shoulder. "If you want to kill me, be a man and do it yourself. See you 'round, Daniel."

Greg wasn't really afraid of Daniel Morgan. He knew that so long as he didn't talk, which he knew he never would, then Morgan would leave him alone. He was all talk anyway. Most government officials were.

He walked over to Warrick and Sofia who looked like they had been speaking to each other in hushed tones before he arrived. The look in Sofia's eyes had gone from curious concern to horrified awe and Greg knew almost immediately that Warrick had told her the story he had related earlier.

"Let's go," he said to them, trying to ignore Sofia's eyes. "We're done here."

* * *

When they got back to the lab, Greg managed to avoid any uncomfortable questions and even strange looks from his colleagues. He strongly believed that Sara had told them of his wishes to be treated as if nothing had happened, or maybe it had been Grissom. Either way, Greg was glad of it. But still, like Sara, there was a strange carefulness in their demeanors whenever they spoke to him, as though they felt they were treading on thin ice, even the lab techs like Wendy and Henry. Greg supposed he could understand this and allow for a certain extent of awkwardness that now existed between him and his friends. They didn't, after all, fully understand all of the horrors he had been through and were unsure if any words they might utter could unintentionally cause some sort of psychological break in him.

It was with this in mind that he went in to see Hodges towards the end of shift and handed him a suicide note one of his victims had supposedly written. Hodges eyed the evidence dubiously.

"What do you want me to do with this?"

"Read it," Greg said.

"Aloud?" Hodges asked skeptically.

"No," Greg said. "I need you to authenticate it."

"Oh," said Hodges, looking at the tiny print. "I thought maybe you'd forgotten how to read where you were… What?"

Greg was stunned, but not for the reasons his friends might have expected. And even now, Hodges seemed unaware that he had said anything upsetting at all. He was treating Greg with his characteristic egotism and frankness and Greg didn't know why, but he found this strangely comforting. A smile spread across his face.

"Yeah, well, you were wrong, I just wanted you to… examine it. Maybe print it for me."

"Yeah, that's not my job, in fact, last I checked, it was yours," Hodges said, rolling his eyes as he handed the note back to Greg. "And if you want questioned documents, go ask Ronnie, I have more important things to deal with." And with that he turned back to his microscope, leaving Greg gaping. He seemed to feel Greg's gaze and turned, cocking an eyebrow. "Why do you keep doing that?"

"What?" Greg asked.

"_Staring_ at me like that!" Hodges snapped.

"I… Nothing, it's just Ronnie's on break and every time I go to Mandy she gives me this weird attitude and doesn't look at me and… You do realize that…" But he swallowed his words and rolled his eyes. "Forget it. Could you just do this for me? Please?"

Hodges smirked. "You _need _me," he said, his voice oozing with his typical self-satisfaction.

"I do not _need_ you," Greg said adamantly and then his voice dropped to a whisper and he looked away from Hodges' eyes. "It's just… you don't…"

"Treat you like you're a mental patient?" Hodges asked.

"Yeah," Greg admitted.

"Well that's because you're not," Hodges said, matter-of-factly. "What, you go AWOL for two months and all of a sudden I'm supposed to treat you like you're special or something?" He took the note back from Greg and fitted it under the microscope he had been using earlier.

"What about the other evidence that was under there?" Greg asked concernedly. "Weren't you just using that to look at—"

"No," Hodges said, clearly aware of what Greg had assumed. "There's no slide under the microscope, I was just hoping if I looked busy you would go away. Obviously I was wrong." He focused the lens. "So lucky for you I just got back from a seminar on handwriting comparison." He looked up. "Do you have anything you know your victim wrote?"

Greg nodded and pulled out a handwritten school essay. "She's a junior in high school," he explained upon Hodges' skeptical look. The lab tech simply shrugged and took the paper, placing it in the other field for comparison's sake.

"Uh huh…" he muttered. "Oh wow," he said, recoiling from the microscope. "This is terrible."

"What?" Greg asked, excitedly.

But Hodges glared at him and shoved both papers into his hands. "That you're so _blind_ you can't see the glaring differences between the two notes with your naked eye," he replied. "The Gs, Ys, Ts, even the way she dots her Is are different. Like you needed _me _to tell you _that_," he said.

Greg smiled and examined both pieces of paper in his hand. "Yeah," he said, feeling at home for the first time since his arrival. He looked up at Hodges and laughed at his silliness. "Actually, I did. Thanks, Hodges."

"Get out of my lab, you're distracting me," Hodges said, waving at Greg dismissively.

Greg took this as his cue to leave and headed for the door. He never thought he would feel so happy to have Hodges' condescend to him.

"Oh, and Sanders…"

Greg paused in the doorway and winced, hoping that Hodges wouldn't ruin the moment. "Yeah?"

Something hit the back of Greg's head and he let out a small yelp before he turned around and looked at whatever Hodges had thrown at him. It was a pair of sunglasses he had found in his locker when he'd first arrived for shift. He'd been wearing them on his head, although it was clear that there was no sun at 4:30 in the morning. They must have fallen off his head onto the table.

"Don't clutter up my lab with your crap," Hodges snapped, nodding at the sunglasses.

The gesture wasn't much, but the message was as clear to Greg as the words 'I'm glad you're OK' ever would have been.

"Right," Greg said, stooping to retrieve the glasses. "It's good to see you again too, Hodges."


	18. Two Atoms Walk Into A Bar

_**Author's Note:**_ As you may or may not have noticed, "Silent Night" is up, staring Greg, Sara and Catherine all in equal parts. So, um, check it out. Or not. Whatever. I like this chapter a lot. Two (at the MOST three) more chapters after this. :o)

* * *

Greg didn't go home right away after shift, although he was exhausted. Every little movement required so much effort recently; it was all he could do to hide his fatigue from his colleagues. He fell into an empty bar stool at about 5AM and let out a breath he felt he had been holding all day. The headache, that omnipresent, ever reliable headache, pounded dully in the back of his mind, a souvenir of his weeks in the White Tigers' hell. 

"We close in five, bub," said the bartender with raised eyebrows. He had the hint of a New York accent.

"You're kidding me!" Greg moaned, but the bartender shook his head. "Look, can't you just pour me a shot of tequila? I really _really_ need some tequila."

The bartender smiled and nodded. "I know the feeling," he said, and got a bottle of José Cuervo. He looked around. "You know, I've called cabs for all the drunks by now, it's pretty much just me and Chris, he's our busboy. You can hang out while we clean up if you want. You look like you've had one of those days."

"More like one of those months, actually," Greg said as he caught the tequila shot the barkeep had slid across the table.

"What's your name, bub?" the bartender asked.

"Gre…" But the word caught in his throat. It wrapped itself around his neck and threatened to constrict like a snake as the brand on his shoulder began to ache dully. And then, all of a sudden, he couldn't breathe, and darkness began to overshadow his mind…

_"What is your name?" _

_"Greg fucking Sanders, you tree-humping shit."_

The bartender's voice brought him back to the present. "Gray?" he said. "Is that a first name or a last name?"

Greg's heart felt like it would explode from his chest it was beating so fast. He was suddenly very cold. He coughed to dislodge the word from his throat before he choked on it. "Uh, no…" He coughed again. "Greg. My… My name is Greg."

The bartender chuckled a little. "Been such a bad day you've forgotten your name?"

"No," Greg said quietly. "No, I didn't forget my name and that was the problem."

"Care to elaborate on that, bub?" the bartender asked.

"No, actually," Greg said, rather coldly as he downed the shot in his hand. He smacked his lips when he was done. "I know this is kind of like, your job and everything, but I'd rather not talk about it, if that's OK with you." He gave the empty shot glass back to the bartender, who simply nodded at Greg with wide eyes.

"OK, whatever you say, bub," he said, absently groping for the bottle as his eyes remained glued on Greg. "Uh… here," he said, pouring him another shot. "On the house. You really need it."

Greg smiled at his new friend and raised the shot glass in a toast. "To the kindness of strangers," he said to the bartender. "I'm going to have to get used to that again."

"Thank you, Blanche Dubois," said the bartender with a nod as Greg swallowed the other shot. And then, the bartender's eyes gravitated towards somewhere over Greg's shoulder. "Sorry, bub, but we're closed," he said.

Greg heard footsteps and a door close, but the footsteps stopped at these words. "I just want to talk to my friend, if that's OK."

Greg closed his eyes and took a deep breath, hoping that this newcomer didn't recognize the back of his head. But Greg knew this was impossible. If only there was some way he could make himself invisible…

And then, his friend slipped into the chair next to him, and Greg could feel his friend trying to catch his eye. But he refused to raise his lids.

"I told you everything you needed to know," he said quietly. "If you've come to ask me more questions—"

"I didn't," said his friend.

Greg opened his eyes and turned to actually look at his friend for the first time. He was sincere and there was something deep and imploring about his dark eyes that Greg couldn't place. "Then what did you come for, Nick?"

The corners of the Texan's lips twitched. "Isn't it obvious?" he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I came to spend some time with you."

Greg was so relieved, he had to let out a low, tired laugh. "I guess I owe you that much," he said. "Being gone for as long as I was."

Nick put a hand on Greg's shoulder. "Hey," he said. "You don't owe me anything."

Greg turned away from Nick and waved at the bartender. "Can I get a rum and coke for my friend here?"

"That's OK," Nick said quickly. "I'm driving."

"Spoil sport," Greg muttered.

"How about one for you," the bartender asked Greg, his hand already holding the rum.

"What the hell?" Greg said with a shrug and the bartender nodded and obliged, sliding the drink across the table to Greg.

The two sat in silence. Greg quietly and contemplatively nursed his drink as the bartender cleaned up behind the bar, the clinking of glasses and shuffling of his footsteps the soundtrack to their strangely amicable quiet. All his life, Greg had found silences to be awkward, often unbearably so, including that which he had shared with Warrick earlier that night. But for the first time in his life, Greg Sanders didn't feel the need to break the silence with a wisecrack or small talk in order to inspire a conversation.

And they sat there for a long time, simply enjoying each other's company, and Greg realized that Nick didn't expect him to speak. He didn't expect anything, and it was his lack of expectations that made their silence so comfortable. Greg didn't speak until he had reached the bottom of his glass.

"I missed you," he said so quietly he didn't know if Nick had even heard him.

But his friend slowly turned his head, his ears hypersensitive after the long lull in their conversation. He didn't speak but simply smiled at Greg and nodded.

"Dark places do dark things to the mind," he said. He looked away from Greg and mumbled, so as Greg had to struggle to understand his next words. "I know that."

And it was with startling astonishment that Greg realized that Nick _did_ know that, better than any of their friends, and he was embarrassed that he hadn't remembered this before. "You never talked about…"

"Yeah, well, you weren't exactly busting at the seams to tell your story either, were you?" Nick replied, obviously more uncomfortable with the current conversation than he had been with the silence.

So Greg decided to give him what he obviously was asking for. Nick hadn't pushed the issue with him, so he was going to show him the same respect. He sat quietly, watching the ice melt in his cup and swirling it around. He licked his lips, his headache a dull throb that was muted by the alcohol and the comforting blanket that was his knowledge of safety. He was safe, and it was over, though it did not feel as if it was over at all. It hadn't even been in vain. As if he had earned them through blood, sweat and tears, he had left that place triumphant with answers to nearly all of his questions. All but the whereabouts of Wesley Clarke. But that wasn't a question he really cared to know the answer to anyway.

And then, all of a sudden, he felt like talking. He wanted Nick to know everything because maybe Nick would be able to answer the only question whose answer eluded Greg even now, as he sat, malnourished and exhausted and yet still breathing on this barstool at five o'clock in the morning.

"It's… kind of like falling asleep, isn't it?" he asked, after another few minutes of silence to allow Nick to gather his thoughts.

"What is?" Nick asked.

"Dying."

Nick looked up at Greg with a confused expression. His words were unexpected, and yet uttered in a soft whisper, almost mouthed, as though they were taboo. "How close were you?"

Greg didn't know how to answer that question. "I… don't know. I felt like I was dying on a number of occasions, but I don't know if death was ever really eminent in any of those cases. They wanted me alive for as long as possible, and most of the things they did just emulated death and inspired the fear of it in you… like the water boarding or the elec… elect…" He sneezed. "Electricity. But when you hallucinate, when you jump outside of yourself for that split second, it's a bit like dreaming, isn't it? The most vivid of dreams, the one you have right before you wake up again and it's a new dawn, a new day, a new era…"

He coughed a little and stared into the depths of his empty glass at the ice as it rested in the small pool of water. He saw Nick nod out of the corner of his eye. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I guess you're right, when you put it like that…"

"So it was the same for you?" Greg asked, excitement swelling up in him. "Is that what… it was like?"

"When you convince yourself that death is all there is…" Nick said slowly. "Everything else just gets… less sharp. Like a TV on mute, it all just suddenly seems less important, like you're thinking clearly for the first time in your whole life… Yeah… Yeah, I saw things. Weird things."

They were quiet again for another few minutes. The bartender was almost done cleaning up the bar by now. Greg had a feeling they would be asked to leave soon.

It took Greg a long time to muster up the courage to ask Nick the singular question he had wanted to know the answer to since first starting this strange and unfamiliar conversation. And when he finally did, he spoke staring into his glass and tried to make the question sound less important to him than it really was, passing it off as a casual musing instead of the philosophical quagmire it really was. Because inside, it was tearing him apart, not being able to figure it out.

"How did we do it, Nick?" His voice was scratchy, so he sniffed and cleared his throat.

Nick looked up at him, his eyes deep with something Greg couldn't read as he pondered this query for several minutes. Greg was sure that Nick understood perfectly well what he meant, but he felt the urge to elaborate nonetheless.

"I mean… How did we survive for as long as we did, when by all statistics, all logical reasoning, we should— both of us— be lying six feet under right now? Why did we get to you just in time? Why was I finally given a lucky break after two months of torment? What makes us so damn special?"

Nick smacked his lips and looked up at the ceiling as if the answers were written on it like cue cards. "I wish…" he said slowly. "I wish I could tell you, Greg. I really do. But you know, Sara told me once that it was because… because it wasn't our day to die."

"I can't accept that…" Greg sighed, disappointed in this answer.

"Then I'm sorry," Nick replied. "Because it's all I've got."

Greg saw the glass shaking in his hands and wondered why. It was only when he heard Nick rise to his feet and slip his jacket over Greg's shoulders that Greg realized he had been trembling. His bones felt brittle, and his muscles ached with every movement. They were screaming at him for sleep, for rest, as his breath rattled in his chest and he let out a wet, hacking cough.

"You should go home and rest up," Nick said. "You don't look too good."

Greg, too emotionally drained to speak, simply nodded and Nick helped him to his feet, the alcohol rushing straight to his head as he stood up a little too fast. He'd only had three drinks, which at his healthiest would have been nothing, but in his weakened condition, and after losing so much weight, the effects of alcohol were tenfold what they used to be and drunkenness seemed to hit Greg like a sack of bricks. He allowed Nick to lead him to the door, unable to hold onto a single train of thought for very long, his mind swarming with images and memories he wished he could suppress like locusts eating away at the happiness the sunlight had nurtured.

And the next thing he knew, he was in the passenger's seat of Nick's car, and his head barely leaned against the window before the fatigue brought on by the alcohol proved to be too much for his already exhausted body and he fell asleep.

* * *

He was plunged into darkness like a frozen lake of fear and he floundered about, spluttering and choking as he tried to keep his head above water, the water slowly solidifying sharply around his neck, threatening to draw blood, and something tangled itself around his ankles, pulling him deeper until his face was beneath the surface and he watched the ice freeze over where his head had been and he was pulled down, down, down, and his chest compressed and he couldn't breathe, and his head throbbed, and he thought he was there, and he knew they were watching, and he wanted them to kill him, kill him, kill him… 

His eyes snapped open, his heart racing as he stared out into the darkness of his room, and for a split second he thought that maybe he was there again, in that cell at the pet clinic. He had the schizophrenic sense of being in two places at once. He was breathing hard as if he had just run a mile and the cold sweat trickled down his forehead. He didn't remember his dream, only the overwhelming sense of unavoidable terror that lingered still, even as the sunlight broke through the line between his heavy blackout curtains. His hands still trembling, he brought them to his face, to cover his mouth, eyes and nose as if to hide in them from whatever was out there that could hurt him. He took a few deep breaths before he realized he was beginning to hyperventilate. He moved his hands up into his hair and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to control his breathing. Eventually, he slowed down, but the chills were still tickling him under his skin and he was afraid of some unseen beast that hid under the bed.

He didn't want to admit that he was still scared, that he knew he would always be scared, on some strange level. He had faced his demons and they had won. He trembled there in his sheets, suddenly wishing he hadn't been so confident when he told Nick he didn't need a chaperone, wishing that Sara had once again in her stubborn ways insisted she stay the night.

He needed light. Like a reverse vampire, the darkness burned him like fire, and he needed the sun to chase it away. So he jumped out of bed so fast, he fell forward onto his hands and knees, and then he realized the nausea that came with a hangover and he groaned, his head still throbbing, and his chest heaved up and down. But he had to reach the window. He had to. And so he crawled on his hands and knees, not trusting his legs enough to stand and yanked the curtains apart as light flooded his room and he squinted his eyes, unprepared for the sudden surge of light. He recoiled from it, as if he had unlocked the cage of another, fiercer demon to chase away a milder one. He crawled backwards to his bed, and like a child, he threw the covers over his head as though it would keep him safe from the monsters that lurked in the corners of his room.

What time was it? The sun was still blaring brightly. He couldn't have been asleep for long. Did he dare venture out of the safety of his blankets and sheets?

He was being foolish. No one knew that better than he did. But regardless, even with this rational thought telling him to just take the phone and dial, he took the sheets off slowly and looked around to make sure he was alone. The sun illuminated his room, which, once his eyes had adjusted to the daylight, Greg had to admit looked quite benign. This comforted him a little and he dropped the sheets and groped around his bedside table for the phone. He looked at the time briefly on his alarm clock. Noon. All his friends, who were just as nocturnal as he was, would be sleeping. He didn't need to wake them…

He thought of his mother. It was the thirty-first. Halloween. Her anniversary. He needed to call her. But he didn't want to talk to her, not in the state he was in. He would call her later. He needed someone else now. He needed someone to calm his nerves. So he went through all his friends and tried to think of who might be the least cranky at this uncalled for wake-up call.

What was the number? Catherine had written them all down for him since he no longer had his cell phone. What had he done with the paper? He opened his desk drawer and shuffled its contents before looking to see if it had fallen behind the table. He found it stuck under the lamp. Catherine had written, in very neat handwriting, the numbers of all his colleagues, along with the note at the bottom: _On call 24/7._

Greg found the note almost prophetic as a smile twitched at his lips. With shaking fingers, he chose his victim, and dialed.

It rang four, maybe five times before a tired voice answered. "I'm not going in early again, Grissom," it snapped, sounding testy.

Greg smiled, but the fear was far from gone. "Tell me a joke," he said.

There was a pause, and then Greg heard the person shifting on the other end, probably getting into a more comfortable sitting position. "Greg? What's wrong?"

"Just tell me a joke," Greg repeated. "That's all I want."

"You're out of breath. What have you been doing?"

"_Joke_, Sara," he said. "Please."

She sighed. "Uh… OK, but I'm not as good at this as you are."

"S'OK," Greg said. He really didn't care if it was all that funny, or even if it was a joke he'd heard before. It was already a comfort just to hear her voice, just to know that she would wake up in the middle of the day for him.

"OK, uh…" And Greg could tell she was racking her brain.

"Come on, Sara," he said, playfully. "What's wrong with you? When I disappeared, did you lose your main source for humor?"

"I can be funny!" Sara cried, defensively. "Just let me think. Uh… Oh, I saw this in the Washington Post the other day. An American tourist was in Italy and got really constipated until he got to Florence. The water was much better there and it cleared up his condition, so he said, 'With Firenze like this, who needs enemas٭?'"

There was a long pause.

Sara let out a frustrated growl. "OK, I know that one was pretty cheesy, but…"

And then Greg burst out laughing. "Are you _kidding_ me? _That's_ the best that the Washington _Post_ could come up with?"

"I am kidding you actually," Sara said, matter-of-factly. "I thought that was the point."

"You're a riot, Sara Sidle," Greg chuckled into the phone, feeling the terror that he had felt so tangible moments ago slowly melt away.

"Well, I try," she said.

"Got anymore?" Greg asked.

"A neutron walks into a bar and orders a drink. But when he asks how much it costs, the bartender says, 'Hey, for you, no charge.'"

"Oh come on, Sara," Greg said, rolling his eyes. "How much of a science geek are you?"

"Hey, that one wasn't that bad! Wait 'til you hear what I have on quantum mechanics!" she replied. "You're the one who wanted jokes; I warned you they wouldn't be very good."

"It reminds me of one my chemistry teacher told me eons ago," Greg said, reminiscing. "Two atoms are walking down the street when one stops and says, 'Oh no, I've lost an electron.' The other stops and says, 'Are you sure?' And the first atom replies—"

"'I'm positive!'" Sara interrupted, and they both burst out laughing. They weren't laughing at any of the jokes necessarily— except, perhaps, at their ridiculous cheesiness— but more because they finally had the excuse to do so, and it washed away the tension they had both been feeling.

"I can't believe you know that joke," Greg breathed, recovering at last.

"Are you serious?" Sara said, sounding surprised. "Please, I know every lame science joke there is."

"Is that so?" Greg said, challengingly. "Well, I bet you don't know the pick up lines like I do."

"You _would_ know the pick up lines," Sara chuckled, and he could even hear her rolling her eyes on the other end.

"If I were an enzyme, I'd be a DNA helicase so I could unzip your genes," he said as sleazily as possible.

She snorted. "And you actually expect a girl to fall for that?"

"Worked for my biology lab partner sophomore year of college," Greg replied.

"I bet she just thought you had to have guts to use a line like that," Sara said.

"According to the second law of thermodynamics, you're supposed to share your hotness with me," Greg said.

"Oh wow, and I didn't think you had _more_," Sara chortled.

"More? I could go on _forever_," Greg replied. "Hey, baby. You make my anoxic sediments want to increase their redox potential."

"OK, wow, I think that's a little too much," Sara said, still laughing but sounding a bit disoriented. "Too much thinking for this early in the day."

They both laughed a little more before they calmed down. Greg wasn't shaking anymore, and his headache was dulled. "Thanks," Greg said, when he had recovered his breath.

"That was the most fun I've had in two months," Sara admitted.

"You're not going to ask why I called?" Greg asked.

"I don't have to," she said. "You had the night terrors again."

Greg felt like she knew some shameful, intimate secret about him and he felt his cheeks flush. "Well…"

"It's nothing to be ashamed of," Sara reassured him, as if she could read his thoughts. "I told you I used to get them too."

Greg changed the subject. "So does Grissom call you often to come in early?"

She chuckled. "Yeah, from time to time, I mean, when he's not here to—" She seemed to catch herself, as though she was about to let slip some terrible secret. "I mean, you know, when he needs someone."

"When he needs someone…" Greg echoed. He took a deep breath. "Well, thanks, Sara. For putting up with my enigmatic request for a joke."

"My line is always open," Sara said sincerely. "Anytime for you, Greg."

"I'll let you get back to sleep," Greg said. "And I'll try to do the same."

"Goodnight, Greg…" He could hear the yawn in her voice, probably already falling asleep on the phone now that he had released her from her duty as a friend.

"Yeah," he said. "Goodnight."

He slid the phone back on the receiver and stared at it for a long time. The horror that his restless sleep had left behind was gone from him now, yet he was wide awake. He knew he should go back to sleep. He hadn't been sleeping for very long. And yet, he was afraid.

Still, he knew that Sara would scold him for avoiding the sleep his body so desperately needed, and so it was for her sake that he decided to lay his head back against his pillow, and close his eyes.

Sara's bad jokes replaying themselves in his mind, Greg eventually fell into the open arms of unconsciousness.

* * *

٭"Firenze" is the Italian name for Florence. This joke is a play on the English/American saying "with friends like these, who needs enemies." I've told this joke a few times and people didn't get it. I am also nearly as big a dork as Sara is when it comes to that. 


	19. Voice Mail

_**Author's Note:**_ I'm sleepy, but I'm finishing up the next chapter after this and I think... that will be... all... You have at the most two chapters left. Afterwards, I'll focus my full attention on Silent Night, and if you want a different interpretation of Greg's past than the one given here, or you're a Sara or a Catherine fan, and you like my style, I encourage you to check it out. Ah. Six Flags has me exhausted, I'm going to go take a nap. Thanks for your lovely comments and support, you are all so incredibly awesome. Once more, Kegel has been awesome throughout this whole story with her beta-reading. She's very prompt and all-around awesome so yay Kegel! I say awesome too much. For a writer, it looks like I have no idea what the word 'thesaurus' means.

* * *

The next time he woke up again, the sun was setting. He made his way sleepily to the shower and relished the feeling of the warm water against his skin. After he dressed, he went into the kitchen and saw his answering machine blinking. He hit play as he went to get out some cereal for breakfast. He still needed to go shopping, but it seemed that when Sara had made him pancakes, she had done some emergency shopping herself and purchased a new gallon of milk for him. So he poured some Special K into a bowl and listened to his voice messages. 

"You have ten new messages," the machine droned monotonously. "Three saved messages." He was not surprised to hear that he had saved messages. Though he had deleted the one that Wesley had left him, he'd probably received a few messages before his friends noticed he was missing. When they investigated (didn't Sara and Catherine say they were nosing around his apartment?) his friends would have noticed he had messages and played them hoping for clues. Most of his messages were weeks, even months old. They played from oldest to most recent.

"First saved message," intoned the machine. "Greg? Greg! Answer this phone _right now_, do you understand me?" Greg recognized his mother's agonized voice instantly as it screeched shrilly from his answering machine. "Greg, you are _not_ your father, you can't just rush off like he did and leave me here all alone. Greg— Greg! Gregory Anthony Hojem-Sanders, I… I…" And then she seemed to have forgotten what she was pleading of him. She had been screaming his name as though if she said it enough times, maybe he would have heard her. "I don't want to be all alone, Greg…" she whispered, sounding so heartbroken that Greg immediately regretted not calling her immediately. He should never have waited. But he just didn't have the courage to tell her what had happened to him, what had happened to her husband. He still wasn't sure if he could face her.

He knew that if his friends heard that, the only thing they could have deduced was that he had rushed off without telling his mother where he was going. It wouldn't have been very useful to them. He wondered if they had called her, to ask what he had said to her so early in the morning.

The machine went on. "Second saved message." There was a pause, and then, "Greg, are you screening? It's Sara. Look, you left so abruptly, I just wanted to make sure that you were OK… Grissom was curious when I told him you'd left, but I… I don't know, Greg. It was something about that John Doe, wasn't it? You can talk to me, you know. Whatever it is, I get it, I get emotional attachments to cases, it's OK, just…" She sighed, seeming to give up. "OK, well, I guess I'll see you tomorrow then. Bye."

There was a click. Then, the machine said. "Third saved message." Greg waited. "Greg, this is Grissom. You're an hour late, and I can't seem to get through to you on your cell. Is something wrong? I know you would have called if you were going to be late, if you could. Maybe you're just stuck in traffic. I guess I'll just wait a little while…" Though he tried to sound calm, Greg could hear the underlying anxiety in Grissom's tone.

Greg smiled at the similarity in Sara and Grissom's style before the machine informed him they were going to his first new message. There was the sound of fumbling, and then a muffled, "Dammit" before the person hung up. Greg couldn't be sure, but it sounded like Catherine. It moved on to the second new message. "Oh for the love of… Greg, it's Catherine. _Please_ pick up the phone. Don't make me come over there and drag your ass into work. Because I will." There was no goodbye, just an angry click at the end of the message.

The third message was from Nick. "Hey, man, uh… I guess I should have known you wouldn't answer me any more than Cath or Grissom, but… You know, you just have to try? Anyways, I figured maybe you came back after we left your apartment. Like you forgot something or… I don't know. That note was weird, man. Too weird for you. Listen, call me as soon as you get this, alright? See ya."

Message number four was a little unclear. "Hey, it's Warrick…" There was a long pause. "You know what? Never mind." And then he hung up.

The fifth message was a little unexpected. "Great, now they've even got _me_ calling you. Look, Greg, folks here are really worried about you, so if there's anyway that you get these messages, just… do _something _to let them know you're still alive? Sooner or later I think Sara and Catherine are going to wear Grissom down and there's gonna be a case opened on you if you don't let them hear something soon. Bye. Oh— it's Brass, in case you couldn't figure it out."

The sixth message was his mother again. "Greg, where are you? Won't you call your poor mother? I'm worried sick about you. I'm sorry I yelled at you. You're safe? You didn't do anything stupid? I'm _sorry_ I snapped at you for not telling me about your promotion, I'm proud of you, I really am, but just call me. _Please_ Greg. I miss you. Love, your mother."

Message seven was his land lord reminding him that his rent was due, and sounding rather rude about it too.

Message number eight was Catherine again, who sounded frustrated. "Why do I even bother… Greg… Where are you?" And then she hung up.

The ninth message was also Catherine, but Greg could only tell by another muffled cuss word before she hung up.

The tenth and last message was Sara. She sounded as if she had been crying and spoke in strained tones. "Greg," she whispered. "Tell me what to do…"

And then she hung up too. Sara's call had come about five weeks ago. It seemed like after that, they had stopped trying to get a hold of him. Greg finished off his cereal and picked up the phone, knowing that procrastinating would make it worse.

Taking deep breaths, he called his mother. She didn't sound as chipper this time, when she answered the phone in her usual, formal way. "Hello. This is Olivia Sanders."

There was something dead in her voice. Her words were slightly slurred. She'd been into the whiskey again. "Mom?" He was surprised to find that his own voice was cracking. Uttering the word, he felt like a small child again opening the door to his parents' bedroom after a bad dream and calling out to them timidly to make sure it was OK that he could crawl into their bed.

She hiccupped. "Greg?" she breathed. "My Gregory?"

He smiled, and was even more surprised at the tears that stung his eyes. He had missed her so much and he hadn't realized the full extent of it until he heard her talking to him again. "Oh God, Mom, I love you so much."

And then, she didn't say anything more, she just broke down into fits of sobs. "Oh, Greg… Greg…" she blubbered. "Why haven't you returned my calls? Where have you been?"

"I've been…" Greg hesitated. After all this time, he actually hadn't mapped out what he was going to tell her. And then it hit him, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Working for the government, Mom. They asked me to help capture the people who killed Dad."

"Your father? You know who killed your father?" she stammered.

"I know more than that," he said. "I know he died for a good cause." She let out another sob. "You were married to a very good man, Mom. He died for us. Asked Wesley to keep us safe."

"Wesley… Wesley knew?"

He knew he shouldn't have said that. He hesitated. "Yes," he said quietly. "Yes, Wesley did know. Mom… Wesley knew this whole time. But he kept his word. He looked after us. Didn't he?" In truth, Greg didn't think Wesley had looked after them at all. But his mother was getting old, and she didn't need more grief. "Mom… Dad was involved in something very dark. But he tried to get out. He tried to get out for us. He loved us Mom. He really did, I know that now. He tried to save innocent lives, and because of that he was killed in the process. But it's OK, now. It's all OK. Because now we have him again and we can give him a proper burial, and we know that he at least died for something."

"Who… who killed…?" She couldn't bring herself to finish the question.

"I'm not too sure who actually did the killing, in the end," Greg said honestly. "But Wesley… did have a hand in it."

She gasped. "Wesley killed my husband?"

"He _hurt_ Dad," Greg clarified. "A lot. It was… bad. But he didn't kill him, though he as good as did," he added spitefully. "He let him die."

His mother had stopped crying now. He could hear her heavy breathing on the other end. He didn't know if he should have told her about Wesley or not. On the one hand, he felt she really needed to know. On the other, she was frailer than she used to be, having survived several broken hearts in the past. He wondered if this one last betrayal would shatter her.

But she said nothing. She just continued to breathe for a full minute until she asked, almost desperately. "But… are you sure?"

And he knew that she was doing it again, the same thing she did whenever his dad didn't come home when he said he would. She was convincing herself that there was another woman all over again. She knew the truth, inside she always knew, but she didn't want to believe. And so, Greg granted her this last delusion. "No, I'm not."

"Well then… Well then, maybe he was trying to help your father," his mother said rationally. "Maybe he only pretended to… Yes. Yes, that's it, he was just trying to help Mark. They're good friends, you know, Greg. They have been ever since they were toddlers. Wesley wouldn't hurt your father. Wesley loved your father. Wesley loved your father."

Greg knew from experience that his mother only repeated things verbatim to herself when she didn't quite believe them. She chanted them as a mantra until they were so firmly set in her mind as truth, no one could question it. "OK, Mom," he said quietly. "Maybe you're right."

"I _am_ right," she said adamantly. "I am right, because you… you don't know for sure. And you ran off on some government mission and left your poor mother in the dark for two months! How _dare_ you!"

And Greg felt like he was a teenager again who had broken curfew. He smiled at the thought. "I wanted to call," he said sincerely. "I really, really did, but… there were no phones where I was, Mom. I couldn't." His nose twitched. He sneezed.

His mother sighed, as if given an excuse she didn't want to accept but would for the sake of ending the argument. She couldn't stay mad at a son she had missed so much. "Oh… Oh alright, I suppose. But don't you _ever_ do that to me again, do you understand?"

"Of course, Mom." He sniffed and then sneezed again. The movement shook his whole body and he coughed until he recovered.

"Are you alright?" his mother asked, oddly enough suddenly bringing the image of Catherine to Greg's mind. The two were becoming synonymous in his head. This disturbed him slightly.

"I'm fine, Mom, I swear it," he assured her.

"You don't sound good," his mother said skeptically. "When is the last time you went to the doctor for a checkup?"

"Uh… Afewmonthsago," Greg mumbled quickly. "Uh, listen, Mom, I gotta get to work, I'm running late—"

"Greg…" his mother said warningly.

"Talk to you later, Mom," Greg said.

"Gregory!"

"Bye," and he hung up just as she let out a frustrated growl. He smirked and headed over to the lab.

* * *

He was laboring over the suicide-note-that-wasn't-a-suicide-note when he found it was incredibly difficult to concentrate. He sniffed and blinked, trying to focus his eyes. It was hard. The notes began looking more and more the same to him, despite the clear difference Hodges had pointed out to him earlier. He was tired. His head hurt. He didn't want to work so hard. 

He sneezed.

"Ugh!" he exclaimed, letting his head fall onto the desk.

The hand on his back made him stiffen. He froze momentarily and didn't realize the touch was gentler than what he was used to. For a moment, he was afraid to, but then he looked up, ready to fight only to see that it was Catherine and he relaxed. "Oh," he said. "Sorry, I… yeah, never mind."

"I do mind," Catherine said. "I mind that you're sweating all over my evidence." She sat down in the chair next to him and slid the note away from him. "Greg, you're obviously sick, let us take you to the hospital."

"Don't wanna go…" Greg protested feebly with another sniff as he folded his arms on the table and rested his head on them.

She put a tender hand on his shoulder. "Sweetie, when's the last time you even saw a doctor?"

"You sound like my mother…" Greg muttered.

"Well someone needs to," Catherine replied. She stood up. "OK, I'm dragging you kicking and screaming to see a doctor right now."

"No you are not!" Greg said as firmly as he could, shooting up in his chair. "Cath, I'm not very trusting of people who call themselves 'doctor' right now, do you hear me?"

Her lips twitched. "Then we'll compromise," she said. "I'll take you to a doctor you can't help but be fond of."

Greg blinked. "What?"

She held out her hand. "Come. I promise we won't go far."

He frowned, and it was more out of curiosity than compliance that he decided to take her hand and go with her. She led him down the hall by the hand and Greg tried to keep up with her swift pace.

"Where are we going?" Greg asked.

"The morgue," she replied.

"I'm not dead yet," Greg protested.

She grinned. "I know."

When they finally arrived at the morgue, Greg saw Dr. Robbins and David Phillips hovering over a corpse. The doctor looked up upon their entrance.

"Hey, Doc," Catherine said, in flattering tones. "Got a patient for ya."

"You have _got_ to be kidding," Greg said with a sniff.

"Catherine, what are you doing?" Dr. Robbins asked.

"Greg refuses to go to a hospital," Catherine said. "And I figured, hey, you went to medical school. Tell me he's completely healthy, and I won't nag him again."

"I'm completely healthy," Greg said.

"That offer wasn't extended to you, sweetie," Catherine said. "Nice try though." Greg pouted.

Dr. Robbins put down his scalpel and shot a look at David as if it was his fault. The assistant coroner simply shrugged and gave him a _don't look at me_ look. Dr. Robbins turned his attention to Catherine. "I'm in the middle of an autopsy here, Catherine, can't this wait?"

Greg sighed with relief, until Catherine said, "No, Al, it can't." And the flattery was gone from her tone. Dr. Robbins noticed and he sighed, walking over to them.

"Fine," he said. "What's wrong with him?"

"Nothing!" "Everything." Greg and Catherine's answers came in on top of each other. Greg scowled at the blonde.

Dr. Robbins looked annoyed. "I'll need you to be a bit more specific than that," he said flatly.

Catherine glared at him and Greg gaped before he gave up. He stared at the ceiling. "Fine. Um. Chills, coughing, sneezing, sore throat… ears all plugged… I got this headache, actually—"

"Ah…" said Dr. Robbins, as if just coming to a conclusion. He turned to Catherine. "Oh, you were right to bring him to me, Catherine, that was very smart on your part."

"What's wrong with him?" she asked.

"Oh, it's a very serious disease. People get it all the time and don't even realize it." Dr. Robbins said. He looked at Greg, who could already detect the sarcasm. "It's called the flu. Go home, get some vitamin C, and sleep a lot. You'll be fine." He looked at Catherine, and sympathy was written in his eyes for a brief moment. "Look, I know you're worried about him, Catherine, but if he's not dead yet, then—"

"Then he'll probably be OK," Catherine finished, nodding.

"That too," Dr. Robbins said. "But I was going to say that he shouldn't be here. It's a morgue, not a hospital. Now if you excuse me, I have work to do."

Greg stuck his tongue out at Catherine. "I told you nothing was wrong."

She folded her arms resolutely. "I wouldn't call the flu 'nothing,'" she said as they left the autopsy room. "But it's better than I thought."

"You hoped I was dying because you know I'm Grissom's favorite and you were jealous," Greg said, trying to be cute.

She guffawed. "Favorite! Yeah, you're his favorite alright. You're right up there with David Hodges."

Greg held a finger to his lips. "Quiet! If Hodges hears you, he'll never let me hear the end of it."

Catherine chuckled, then stopped and turned to look at Greg. And then, she did something quite unexpected. She threw her arms around him and hugged him, holding onto him tightly. Unsure of how to respond, he returned the embrace, a little shakily, but soon found he felt as though he belonged there, with her arms around him. Catherine was good at making things not awkward.

"I'm really glad you're OK, Greg," she whispered, and from the strain in her voice Greg realized for the first time how worried she'd really been about him.

"Careful," Greg said seriously. "I'm contagious."

They pulled apart and she wiped a tear away from her eye, looking embarrassed. "Right, well… I don't care."

Greg grinned at her. "Obviously." She laughed. "I had ten new messages on my answering machine," he told her. "Four of them were from you."

He was surprised to see her blush. "Well, when you disappear as randomly as you did, one starts to wonder…"

"Come on," he said. "Let's get back to work."

"Oh no," Catherine said. "You heard what Doc Robbins said, you're going home and to bed, kiddo. Doctor's orders."

"Not a chance," Greg said, even though as he said it he was feeling dizzy. "Nothing fixes me better than just launching into a case."

"Honey, you're swaying on the spot," Catherine said.

Greg coughed. "Yeah, well, I'm excited, that's all."

"Look, even if you don't want to admit you're sick, at least admit that you're going to get _us_ sick if you stick around here, and I refuse to let you risk _our_ health just because you're being stubborn."

"_I'm_ putting your health at risk?" Greg laughed. "If I recall, I didn't _make_ you hug a sick person thirty seconds ago."

She chuckled lightly and took him by the arm. "I'll take you home and put you to bed. Maybe I'll make you some hot soup too and bring it to you."

Greg had to admit that hot soup in bed sounded absolutely amazing to him at that moment. "Will you be wearing a Princess Leia gold bikini?" he asked.

Her smile faded, but only momentarily. "Don't push your luck, hotshot."

"Fine," he said reluctantly. "I'll let you take me home."

"Good," she said and they continued down the hall. There was a moment of contemplative silence when she said, "Greg?"

"Hm?" he intoned, allowing his disoriented fatigue to lull him into a walking slumber.

"Are you OK?"

"I have the flu," he said, as if to remind her of the obvious.

"I mean… in other ways," she explained. "Are you?"

He thought for a moment. "Leave a message and I'll get back to you," he said. He turned to her and winked. "If I recall, you're good at leaving messages."

She hit him playfully and then helped him into her car.


	20. Rain Clouds

_**Author's Note:**_ OK, first of all, this is being posted without previously being betaed. It's "hot off the press" so expect typos, and I am severely unhappy with Nick in this chapter, so much that I was going to rewrite both of his scenes. But as my laziness outweighs my perfectionism, I decided to screw it and give you the chapter as-is. Unfortunately, in writing and posting Silent Night, I have fallen behind in this. There will be one... last... chapter to this and then it will be over, cross my heart. As mentioned, recall this has NOT been betaed, and that's my own fault for having it done so late, with no time to send to Kegel beforehand so... yes... There's a Silent Night preview in my profile now, if you want to know more about what it'll be about. I think that is all. Enjoy.

* * *

Greg slept dreamlessly for three days straight, and spent another two weeks at home to recover from the bug. He would have returned after a week, but Catherine said she wouldn't let Grissom sign his paychecks if he did. And Greg didn't do pro bono work for anyone, not even Grissom. 

The night terrors came and went. Though Greg had heard of them before Sara had mentioned them, he hadn't known that they would effect him so much. He Googled them and found that it was common not to remember the dreams that inspired so much terror, and that the realism of the feeling was equally typical. This appeased him very little. When they did strike, he tried not to wake Sara. He had taken to watching daytime television until he fell asleep in front of the screen. But for the particularly bad ones, in which the horrid sense of fear refused to leave him, he would call her. This happened at least twice a week.

He popped a cough drop into his mouth and straightened out his suit as he looked at himself in the mirror. His cheekbones were still rather more pronounced than before, and his sallow complexion made him look like a walking skeleton. Greg's brow furrowed in thought. He wished he was a girl so he could use makeup to hide such unsightly marks of his torture. He looked at his teeth. They seemed OK… a little spotty in places where the enamel had decayed. He needed some more calcium, but they'd be alright. His mouth wasn't as red as it had been before, and his cold sores had cleared up, and his hair was growing in darker again. Sara informed him it was because his pigment was coming back now that he was getting proper nourishment. He hoped it would come back to his skin as well eventually.

He pulled his suit jacket tightly around him. It was more than a little big on him. He still scared himself when he caught sight of his body in the mirror. The scars on his back rarely bothered him anymore, but they were unsightly, and he had a dip between the bottom of his ribcage and his pelvis where his stomach should have been. Sara was shoving protein bars down his throat every time she came over to check on him. She even delivered a bucket of fried chicken once, although to her vegetarian credit she looked revolted as he ate it.

He was upset that he'd gained little weight in the two weeks he had been back. He would be seeing his mother today, and he didn't want her to see him looking like a corpse. He combed his hair back again from his face, but it was longer than he'd like it and it kept falling back into his eyes. He sighed. He had wanted to get a haircut, but he had never gotten up the energy to actually go out and do it. He slathered some gel onto his hands and raked his hands through his hair. That helped. He pulled at his jacket and was looking at his narrow profile in the mirror when someone started knocking at his door. With another tired sigh he exited his bathroom and answered the door without thinking. Nick was standing in the doorway soaking wet, but holding a bag of take-away Chinese food and wearing a grin so broad, Greg had to grin back.

"Chinese?" Nick asked, holding up the bag. "I wasn't sure what you liked, so there's a bunch of stuff… Kung Pao chicken and sweet and sour pork and sautéed broccoli…" Nick walked into the apartment and started looking through the bag as he made his way to Greg's kitchen.

"This is rather unexpected," Greg half-lied. He had a feeling his friends were taking turns standing sentry outside of Greg's apartment to make sure he didn't leave because every time he was about to, someone always showed up, generally with food.

"What? Oh, yeah," Nick said, nodding. "Well, I was hungry, and it's been a while since I saw you, I thought you wouldn't mind."

"I don't," he said. "Except I have to go."

"I noticed the suit," Nick said stiffly, as though he hadn't wanted to ask. "Why don't you just take it easy today?"

"Catherine can keep me from going to work, but she can't keep me prisoner in my own apartment all day," Greg said. "I have somewhere to be."

"Let me go with you then," Nick volunteered eagerly.

"No," Greg said. "By the looks of you, it's raining pretty badly out. Dammit, where did I put my umbrella…" He opened his closet and looked among the coats and old Christmas decorations.

Nick didn't speak for a moment. "Where are you going?" he asked timidly.

Greg pulled out an umbrella and closed the closet door. "A funeral," he replied. He turned around to look at Nick and saw he had started to unpack the Chinese food. "I don't have time to eat that," he said.

Nick turned around holding a box of noodles and chopsticks. "No," he said. "But I do. How long are you going to be?"

"As long as funerals normally take," Greg replied, fixing his tie. Nick went to his fridge and took out a beer before he sat down at Greg's kitchen table and kept eating. Greg cocked an eyebrow. "You're, er… welcome to stay if you want," he said with a hint of sarcasm.

"Thanks," Nick mumbled with his mouth full.

Greg paused. "Don't count the hours I'm gone," he said. "I promise I'll come back."

"You thought you were coming back last time, too," Nick said quietly.

Greg realized now why Nick didn't want him to go anywhere. Greg's poor health was just an excuse. Nick was afraid he would lose Greg again. Greg smiled wanly and approached his friend, who seemed very focused on his noodles. "Hey, um… Listen, if you… want to come…" Nick's eyes lit up as he looked at his friend and Greg closed his eyes and sighed. "Alright," he said reluctantly. "You'll need something more appropriate to wear, though."

Nick smirked as he gestured at his soaked bright red shirt. "What," he said. "Too subtle?"

Greg rolled his eyes. "I'll get you some clothes," he said.

* * *

Greg pulled up outside of the cemetery. It was nice having his car back. He had missed it. It looked as though the CIA had cleaned it for him too. The outside was washed and the inside was vacuumed. Greg knew the typical shape cars were in when the authorities released them from evidence, and so he thought that this was an extremely courteous gesture. He tapped his fingers on the wheel, then turned to Nick who was staring out in front of him, looking agitated.

"I've changed my mind," Nick said, fidgeting. "I don't want to go."

Greg was getting annoyed. _Because you couldn't have decided this _before_ I drove you all the way here,_ he thought. But he simply said, "OK."

Nick's eyes darted from the graveyard to straight ahead out the windshield. "I mean… it's not what you think."

"You're actually giving me some personal space?" Greg guessed hopefully.

Nick snorted. "Oh no, I would never do that," he said. "No, it's just that I…"

"You don't like funerals?"

"No, that's not it," Nick said and Greg realized that if Nick had said it wasn't what Greg thought it would be, then he should probably stop guessing. Nick continued to fidget and didn't explain.

"OK…" Greg said. "Well, you can wait in the car then."

He opened the door when Nick blurted out, "It's the coffins, you see. So tight and limiting, overly elaborate, pointless in effect. And the graves… themselves, all deep beneath your feet… like you're stepping on them, and I can almost hear the bones crunching…"

"You have a thing about cemeteries," Greg deadpanned, annoyed that Nick had chosen this particular moment to confide in him about some strange phobia. He checked his watch. He was already ten minutes late. And he'd promised his mother he would be prompt.

Nick sighed. "I didn't… _used_ to…" he said. "I mean, it was fine, until…"

And all of Greg's annoyance melted away from him when he realized how hard this was for Nick to say. He closed the car door, but Nick didn't finish his sentence. And regardless of how late he was going to be, Greg didn't push it. He just waited.

Nick looked up at the ceiling of the car and blinked repetitively. Greg knew the action well— he had done it many times in the past. Nick swallowed and his voice shook. "Look, I… It's weird, because the tiniest little things will just take you back there, even now. And it's generally not so bad. I laugh it off or tell myself to relax, that it's over, and that I survived, but recently it's gotten worse, and it's because of you. Because I can't… imagine… you… going through anything even close to that, and it just… drives me crazy sometimes. That you _did_ go through it. That it was _worse_ than what I—"

"It wasn't worse," Greg said quietly. "Never say it was worse. You can't compare what happened to you with what happened to me. Apples and oranges."

Nick looked at him, and Greg saw his brown eyes were bloodshot. "Right, OK, but that's not the point." He rolled his eyes before rubbing them with his hand. "Jesus, Greg, I'm sorry, I'm going to make you late, get the hell out of here."

Greg reached for the door handle, then paused before licking his lips and looking back at his friend. "You know what, I don't have to go," he said. "If you want to talk about it—"

"It's a funeral, Greg," Nick said, rolling his eyes again. "Somebody died, of course you have to go."

"Yeah, maybe," Greg said. "But I didn't know him as well as I know you. Besides, the living come first. They always have."

"I don't want to talk about it," Nick said seriously. And then, he was smiling, suddenly himself again. "Now _get_! Go to your funeral, pay your respects, I'll sit here and turn on the radio while I wait for you. Take your time though, don't rush on my account."

Greg sighed before nodding and he left the car.

He opened his umbrella and entered the cemetery, walking slowly up the hill. He saw them on the peak of it, the smallest funeral party there, consisting of a young minister and an old widow overlooking the pit of earth beneath her. Greg picked up speed and jogged over to his mother who looked back at him, but she did not smile. He could see the tear streaks down her cheeks, but he knew if he asked she would only blame it on the rain.

He beamed at her and favored her with a smile large enough for the both of them, but she looked away. "You're late," she whispered.

"Yeah, I had a thing," Greg said vaguely.

She took a deep breath and held it, pursing her lips as she did so. Greg looked away from her at the coffin that was being lowered into the ground. He knew what his mother was like when she was in one of her moods. She wouldn't listen to his excuses today.

"Pastor Childs has been very kind to fly out to Las Vegas with me for this," she whispered sharply. "We've been waiting for you for twenty minutes."

"I know, I'm sorry," Greg said to her, then looked at the minister and said a little louder, "I'm sorry."

He simply smiled and nodded. "Would you like a moment?" he asked Greg.

Greg shook his head. "No, go ahead."

The pastor nodded and began to read a passage from the Bible he was sure his mother had chosen. "Out of the depths I cry to you, Lord; Lord, hear my voice. Let your ears be attentive to my cry for mercy. If you, Lord, kept a record of sins, Lord, who could stand? But with you there is forgiveness, so that we can, with reverence, serve you…"

Greg smiled as he listened to the pastor. "Psalms," he whispered to his stiff mother. "Song of Ascent, if I remember correctly. Interesting choice."

"Do you still go to church, Greg?" his mother asked curtly.

"I've been reading the Book of Acts lately," Greg said. "I found 26:17 to be particularly poignant."

"It's rude to talk while the pastor is speaking," his mother whispered.

Greg continued as if she hadn't spoken. "'I will rescue you from your own people and from the Gentiles. I am sending you to them to open their eyes and turn them from darkness to light, and from the power of Satan to God, so that they may receive forgiveness of sins and a place among those who are sanctified by faith in me.'"

"I know the passage," his mother snapped. "I don't see the relevance."

"Dad was like Paul, Mom," Greg explained. "He was lost for a long time, but then something intervened. Call it Jesus, call it common sense, or call it his family, whatever it was, he was sent back to the people whose beliefs he once shared and tried to change them too."

"He obviously failed," his mother said coldly.

"Ah," said Greg, nodding. "There's one key difference between Paul and Dad."

"And what is that?"

"Paul was a saint."

His mother was quiet again as the pastor finished up the psalm and the coffin began to lower itself into the ground. The pastor started on a new, more common prayer. "For as much as it hath pleased Almighty God to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother here departed we therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust…"

"No, I don't," Greg whispered.

"Don't what?" his mother asked, unable to help being curious.

"Go to church," Greg answered her. "You asked me if I did, and I don't. It doesn't fit with my hours."

"There is always time for church," his mother said resolutely.

Greg smiled at her. "For a woman who loves her church so much, you didn't seem too excited about holding the funeral in one."

"This is better," she said. "Anyone who would have come to your father's funeral is either dead or I've lost touch with them. It would be too depressing, you and I sitting alone in those empty pews."

"Because standing alone in the rain is much more cheerful," Greg said sardonically.

"Greg, not at your father's funeral, please," his mother begged. He heard the sorrow leaking from her voice. She thought she'd gotten over her husband's death years ago. But apparently, she had been wrong.

He slid his arm around her shoulder and she leaned her head against him. The casket came to rest at the bottom of the grave. Pastor Childs stopped speaking as he looked up at the mother and son.

And then, Olivia Sanders let out a sob, and then another one. She dropped her umbrella to the ground and turned her face into Greg's chest, who held her as tightly as he could. "I miss him so much…" she sobbed. "It's been seventeen years, and I still miss him… so much…"

"Sh…" Greg hushed as he covered her with his own umbrella. "He's back now. He loved us. And he's back."

"And you…" she choked. "You're so unhealthy, you're not eating—"

"I _am_ eating!" Greg insisted.

She pulled away from him and fixed him with a fierce glare. "Don't lie to me, Gregory, I'm your mother."

"Look," Greg said, taking her shoulder with his free hand. "I went through a lot figuring out what happened to Dad, OK? It took a lot out of me. I lost a little weight—" His mother scoffed and he had to laugh. "OK, more than a little. The point is, I'm eating, I promise, and I already have about five other people on my back about how I look. I know I look terrible, and I know that I scare you sometimes, but Mom, I promise you that I feel better right now than I have in three months."

She gave him a sad smile and reached up to push the hair away from his face. Apparently, he had very cheap gel. "Oh, Greg…" she whispered. "You are so much stronger than I ever could be. You must get that from your father."

He embraced her again and rested his chin on her head. "No, Mom," he said. "You're plenty strong. The strongest person I know. I bet I get it from you."

As if to prove him wrong, she completely broke down in his arms and he caught her as her knees gave out. He dropped his umbrella, which fell to the ground, and the rain began to fall on the both of them, but neither of them seemed to care at all.

Greg walked back to his car listening to the squelching noise his shoes made every time he took a step. He opened the door and Nick gave a start. His friend had obviously been sleeping. Nick blinked the sleep from his eyes and stretched.

"So," he said with a yawn. "How'd it go?"

Greg closed the door to his car and turned the key in his ignition. "As well as a funeral could, I suppose," he said. He looked at Nick. "You wanted to talk about something?"

"No," Nick said, looking out the window. "I didn't."

Greg sighed and nodded as he backed out of the parking space. Nick had already had his moment of weakness in front of Greg. Greg knew his friend wouldn't want to go there again for a long time. They should have talked about it when they had the chance. Now, Nick was just embarrassed.

But it didn't matter either way to Greg, because he knew what it was that ailed Nick. It was the very reason he hadn't wanted to tell his friends the truth in the first place. Nick was feeling protective again. Greg knew his friend had always seen him as something that _needed_ protecting. And now, Nick felt as if he had failed Greg.

"You didn't, you know," Greg said suddenly.

"Didn't what?" Nick asked.

It was then that Greg remembered he had been thinking to himself, not speaking to Nick. "I'm sorry," Greg explained, "that you feel like I needed protection. But you didn't fail me."

"What?" Nick blinked. "No… no, that's not… That's not it."

Now Greg was in uncharted waters. He glanced at Nick. "Then what is it?"

"I just…" Nick sighed and leaned back in his seat. "It's like… no one should ever have to suffer through anything like that. And of course there was nothing I could have done to stop it, and it's not like you need protecting. You've shown me that. But you're the last person that should have to endure that kind of torture. You're too…"

"Naïve?" Greg grumbled bitterly. He didn't like being the youngest on the team. He felt constantly underestimated.

But Nick looked at him with a furrowed brow, as if surprised Greg would suggest this at all. "Good," he said.

Greg sighed. "I don't think you know me very well," he said. "I'm not this altruistic hero you seem to make me out to be."

"Heroes rarely realize how heroic they are," Nick said. "By just surviving, you did what I never could."

Greg frowned as they came to a stoplight and looked at Nick. "But… you _did_ survive…"

Nick looked away from Greg again. "I lost faith, Greg." And without further clarification, Greg knew exactly what Nick was talking about.

"You lost nothing," Greg said. "You were running out of air, you were covered in ant bites, I would have pulled that trigger long before you tried to. That is, if I could work up the nerve. In all that time I was gone, I could never do it. I never found the courage to just stop it all."

Nick laughed and shook his head. "You still don't get it, do you?" he said.

"I _do_ get it," Greg said, feeling underestimated again. "You have to be the bravest guy I know, to be willing to take your own life like that. No matter how black it got, I was still too scared to take that last step. I couldn't kill myself to save my life."

But Nick sighed as he looked out the window, still laughing at joke that Greg didn't get. "No, Greg," he said quietly. "_You're_ the brave one."

Greg stared at him a moment, not knowing quite what to say, before the light turned green and ended their conversation.


	21. Day Breaks

_**Author's Note:**_ A few things to address. Firstly, Kegel is on vacation in the Norway or somewhere, so once again no beta for this chapter, though I did read through it. Next, I know that this is a very creepy way to end the story but blame that on me watching too many Salad Fingers cartoons (YouTube search it, it'll scare the hell out of you). Also, this is a "horror" story according the genre I originally assigned it rolls eyes. Thirdly, I just wanted to reference a great man named Terry Waite, who came to speak at my old high school in 2004 and received a standing ovation from a normally apathetic student body. Wikipedia him. He was the one who told us that art is essential to a person's mental health, and that reciting poems he had memorized to himself and singing songs he knew and thinking of paintings he loved, he was able to entertain himself while in solitary confinement in Lebanon in the late 80s. He is a VERY interesting man, a real victim of real torture, who survived and preaches peace, understanding, and forgiveness. He is a humanitarian who spent four years in total isolation from ANYONE and yet, he jokes about the experience, which (as you can imagine) elicited some awkward I'm-just-laughing-to-be-polite chuckles from the student body. Anyways, I'm bringing him up because I used a lot of what he said in this story (such as Greg holding onto his humor, and remembering art to keep himself sane, and not holding onto his rage and want for revenge). He's a totally awesome guy, and I was honored to hear him speak, so if you ever hear he's around I encourage you to listen to him, it's an exhilarating and empowering experience. Lastly, I know this is an uber short chapter, but, well... whatever. I'm making no excuses for that. It's about the same length as my chapters for Silent Night, which I'm keeping intentionally short so as not to let the story drag on. Now I can focus my full attention to Silent Night. Yay!

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He opened his eyes and stared up at the cold, gray ceiling. He was trembling from head to foot and drenched in a cold sweat, as though he had just awoken from a terrible nightmare. The concrete walls of his prison pressed in on him. 

"This isn't real," he told himself. "I'm dreaming again."

But just saying it didn't make it stop. He heard something moving in the dark corner of his cell and sat up. Searing pain shot through his back as he moved. Every single one of his muscles was aching and he felt exceptionally lightheaded. He looked at the shadowy figure in the corner, who seemed to be whittling away at a wooden figurine, his head bent over his project.

"Do you know why we often don't remember our nightmares, Greg?" he asked ominously. His voice was strikingly familiar, but Greg couldn't place it for the life of him. Greg took in a shuddering breath before he shook his head. The figure looked up and flashed Greg a Cheshire Cat smile. All Greg could see were his sharp teeth. "It's a defense mechanism of the brain. When things are too much for us to take, we tend to block them out."

There was a flash and Greg winced as he saw his frail and distorted body naked and tied to a wrought iron chair, his head thrown back as he screamed in horror. And just as instantly as it had appeared, it was gone again, and Greg was back in his cement cell.

"What do you want from me?" he asked the Shadow. "Who are you?"

The Shadow didn't reply, but simply continued to whittle away at his figurine. "They got to them, you know," he said. "They got to them all."

And then there was another flash. But it wasn't himself Greg was watching. It was Nick. Bound and naked, he was sprawled on his stomach on the cold metal table as he was mercilessly whipped. His back was already raw and red with blood before they even took out the gun.

But Greg didn't see what happened next as the scene changed and he was witnessing Catherine's humiliation as she was tied spread-eagled to an operating table and an incision was made from the base of her neck to the bottom of her navel. She screamed as the perverse doctors lifted an obscenely rusty tool and began the waking operation.

The scene changed again and it was Warrick this time, strapped to the rack as they stretched his joints. One of them put a knife to his throat and Greg saw Warrick splutter just as the first red bead of blood blossomed from the wound before the scene changed again.

It was Sara now, huddled in a corner hugging her knees as she sobbed before three men approached her and pushed her forward onto her hands and knees. She screamed as they swarmed in on her and laughed, and Greg was glad that it was too dark to see what they were really doing.

The scene changed once more and he saw Grissom's eyes, staring out of a glass coffin as his body was swarmed with maggots and spiders and ants. All Greg could see of his old supervisor were his terrified glass eyes, which housed his last thoughts and mute communications before his body stopped working.

Greg was breathing heavily until he found he was back in his cell with the Shadow, who continued to whittle away at his figurine humming softly to himself. Greg recognized the tune as the one associated with the common nursery rhyme, Ring Around the Roses. Right before he hummed the last note, he stopped and looked up, seeming to realize that Greg had returned to the present. He smiled again, and this time Greg saw a flash of red cross his otherwise obscured eyes.

"Poor little Greg, all alone again," the Shadow said. "Everyone is dead and you're out of places to turn."

"That's a lie," Greg snarled defiantly. "This is just a dream, I'm _dreaming_!" But even knowing this didn't make the pain go away.

The Shadow chuckled and shook his head. "You didn't dream me," he said. He tossed Greg the figurine he had carved and Greg caught the wooden statue and looked at it. It was the image of a rat, its mouth open as it bared its fangs at Greg looking feral. Its tail was long and ended in a sharp point like a spear. Greg realized if he had caught it wrong, he could have stabbed himself in the hand. He looked up at the Shadow.

"So who are you?" Greg asked. "Are you Death again, taking on another form so as to freak the hell out of me? Because it's working."

"No, Greg," the Shadow said, shaking his head. "The question isn't who I am, it's what I've been doing while you've been pretending to move on with your life."

Greg didn't know why, but he took a step backward. "I don't understand…"

"I'd kill them all, if I could," the Shadow said, in such a gleeful tone it chilled Greg to the bone. "I'd kill them all for what they did. To you. To our friends. To dear old Daddy. I'd split open their stomachs to see what their insides looked like when they were on the outside. I'd flay their bodies and throw the meat to the wolves as I wore their skins like coats. But you're too good for that, aren't you? You had to stop me from unleashing my vengeance. Well…" And he slowly stepped into the light… "If you won't let me kill them, I'll just stay here and slowly writhe inside of you, leaking out poison until I kill you instead."

Greg dropped the figurine of the rat and it clattered loudly on the concrete floor. Cold fear washed over him as he stared into the face of the Shadow who was grinning at him with vampiric teeth and wild, familiar brown eyes.

It was like looking into a crazy mirror in a funhouse. The Shadow was his spitting image, except for the long, distorted arms and legs and gaunt, sunken face. His skin hung off his bones as if it didn't belong there and his eyeballs were wide as they twisted in their skeletal sockets. "You see… _Greg…_" he said the name sinisterly, dripping with contempt. "Dreaming isn't about scaring you while you're asleep. It's about destroying you while you're awake."

Greg tried to wake up. He begged his body to respond. He backed up against the wall, and the rat figurine suddenly twisted on the floor, jumping to life as it hissed at him. The distorted shadow image of himself slowly sauntered over to Greg, jerking with every awkward step his long legs took. He was singing again, that nursery rhyme that filled Greg's head. And as he went on with the song, his voice got deeper and darker, more gravelly, until Greg swore it was the voice of the devil himself.

"_Ashes, ashes, we all fall **down**_..."

And then, just like his sudden flashes, he was in his room again. He couldn't breathe. He felt as if something was weighing heavily on his chest.

"Don't fight it, Greg."

He turned his head to see his father, looking like he did the day he disappeared, with his legs crossed as he read a magazine nonchalantly. He didn't even look up when he spoke.

"What?" Greg gasped, feeling suffocated.

"The night," his father replied, frowning at an article in what Greg could now see was the May 1990 issue of the New Yorker. It had his own animated distorted face on the cover, staring back at Greg with that angular Cheshire Cat smile. "You need to find a healthy way to release it."

"I can't…" Greg said, struggling in his bed as though someone was holding him down. "I can't, Dad, please…"

His father sighed and put down the magazine before he took off his reading glasses. "See, Greg? You're fighting it. You're afraid of it. You need to siphon it off. You need to _let it out._"

Whatever held him, released him, and whatever was choking him relinquished its grip as Greg gasped for air in his own, dark bedroom, trembling. He normally didn't remember his dreams, but this one was vivid. Too vivid. His clammy hands felt for the phone on his bedside table and he blindly dialed the number.

It rang twice before she answered, groggily. "Greg? I take it things aren't OK?" She yawned.

Greg's voice trembled as he spoke. "_I'm_ not OK, Sara," he whispered.

She sighed. "I know telling you it was just a dream won't help," she said. "But I told you these things won't go away unless you deal with them. Especially when they're the result of post traumatic stress." She hesitated a moment. "When I was little, I didn't start coping with them until a social worker told me what they meant."

"What they meant?" Greg repeated, confused. "Social worker, Sara, I… You said you got them naturally."

"I said they occur in fifteen percent of the population naturally," Sara replied. "I never included myself in that number."

Greg understood. She hadn't wanted to tell him. Just as he hadn't wanted to tell her all the gory details of what happened to him. It was awkward and intimate, and she wondered what he would think of her afterwards. "It's OK, Sara, you don't have to tell me about it."

"It's nothing like what you went through," she said quickly. "I… My mother, she…" Sara coughed and changed the subject. "How are you feeling? Do you want me to tell you a joke again?"

"I wanted to kill them, Sara…" Greg whispered. "Or… Or, a part of me did."

"But you didn't," Sara pointed out.

And then, Greg remembered something. "I did."

She paused. "No, Greg. That was in your dream, you never—"

"I electrocuted him," he whispered. "And they just…"

"Do you want me to come over?" Sara asked.

Greg considered this. "No," he said. "You're tired, I don't need you driving, I'll be fine."

"Greg…" Sara began, cautiously. "Not that I don't want to be there for you every night when these things happen, because I do, but I think that the sooner you get these under control, the better the both of us will sleep. You know what I mean?"

"I don't know how…" he said honestly, feeling helpless.

"Will you go see that psychiatrist Brass knows?"

There it was. The ambushing question. She knew he was feeling guilty for waking her up, and she knew he would hesitate to answer. He hadn't wanted to see Brass's psychiatrist. But he figured he would. "OK," he said with a sigh.

He could hear her grin clear through the phone lines. "I'm glad, I think it will help you a lot."

"Yeah…" he said thoughtfully. Her enthusiasm made him optimistic. "Yeah, maybe it will. Tell me a joke."

She laughed. "I got a few lined up for just such an occasion."

Greg grinned. "Perfect."

And that was the last time he would ever bother Sara for that reason. The next day, he made an appointment with Brass's psychiatrist, who was surprisingly easy to talk to. She didn't judge him like Greg thought she would, and it was comforting to have someone like that to help him along. They rarely spoke about what happened to him at all, if Greg wasn't in the mood, and he liked the relaxed environment. A few days after that, he returned to work, still sneezing every now and again but for the most part, his flu was gone.

The scars on his back would fade with time, though they would never truly disappear. Still, they would never be as vivid as the remnants of the burn on his right shoulder blade, a strange tattoo of a cross and circle. A constant reminder to Greg of what he and his father had struggled against, and exactly why he would never let the night get to him like it had gotten to Wesley and his father.

And as the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, Greg felt himself slipping back into his old routine again. He laughed a lot more than he did before he had disappeared, and when asked about it, he simply impressed upon his friends the importance of laughter. Because he never forgot what a friend his sense of humor had been to him in those ten lonely weeks. It had been the only way he had really hung onto a part of himself. It was something that they couldn't kill, and though Greg wasn't quite sure why, he was glad for it. And so were his friends.

For he truly understood the wisdom in the words of Jimmy Buffet. Because if Greg couldn't laugh, then they would all go insane.

**THE END**

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_**End Note:**_ Shadow Greg even scared me, but it may be because I wrote it at three in the morning after episode six of Salad Fingers so I was already creeped out. I never know when I write horror if what I write is scary. Whatever. Also, I know that I ended this abruptly, but I felt as if this story had run its course and I answered all the mysteries and tied up all the friendly interactions so... sorry for the annoying "And they all lived happily ever after," Deus Ex Machina sort of ending, but I got bored with this as I ran out of ideas and had no clue how to wrap it up. I hate writing endings. Unless they're cool, "Finding Mr. Hyde" or "Queen of Spades" type endings which are awesomely unexpected and/or creepy. I guess this is kind of creepy. Hahaha. "Day Breaks," the name of this chapter, was just something to contrast "Night Bleeds" and I thought it was appropriate. I suck at titles.

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